


A Chance to Reappear

by schantzscribbles



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen) Deserves Better, Connor Murphy Lives (Dear Evan Hansen), Developing Friendships, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Biphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2020-12-17 01:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21046106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schantzscribbles/pseuds/schantzscribbles
Summary: Connor Murphy's plan didn't go as he intended. Instead, he's now laying in a hospital bed, angry at the world, angry at his parents, angry at himself. But even after everything that has happened, he finally wants to try his hand at recovery. This begins with returning to school a week late and befriending a certain boy at the request of his mother: Evan Hansen. Connor isn't fully sold on the idea of letting someone in to his world, but he is willing to learn.





	1. Chapter 1

The last thing I remember is flashing fluorescent lights. Well, they weren’t exactly flashing. More just running past me at what felt like lightning speed. Everything was blurry through heavy, squinted eyes and the world was reduced to light, dark, light, dark, light, dark. I heard frantic voices, too. All shouting and crying, yet nothing sounded like any coherent language. It was all muddled and messy. But then the lights got darker and darker and the voices got fainter and fainter, and just like when you’re falling asleep, I don’t remember when I passed out.

/\/\/\

Before I was in the hallway of flashing lights, I was in the park, retching violently while on the swing set. It wasn’t the most private place to die, but something about dying in a place that was supposed to bring joy and fun felt wickedly poetic. As I vomited, I didn’t really regret what I had done, but I was scared. I just wanted to throw up, get it over with, and go to sleep, but something inside of me still wanted to fight, which is why I remember the ride through the hallway of flashing lights.

But now I’m here, exposed and freezing in nothing but a hospital gown and underwear, with so many tubes coming out of me I could be a comic book villain. (Let’s face it: I wouldn’t be the hero.)

It’s funny how a room can be silent and deafening at the same time.

An analog clock adjacent to my bed ticks perpetually. The heart monitor follows the ticking, just a beat off. Mom, fast asleep, her breathing following the same rhythm. Tick, beep, breathe. Tick, beep, breathe. Tick, beep, breathe. The air conditioner kicks on in the window and just adds an angry whirring bass under the melody. I wave my hand lightly, as if I were the one conducting the orchestra, but eventually let my hand drop back into my lap.

It sucks being here.

It’s only been a day, but I can’t stand it. Mom has been fighting with doctors, trying to convince them to let me go home. Dad sides with the doctors, wanting me to stay in inpatient care for at least a week. I don’t want to go home, but I don’t want to be here either. I don’t think I have a choice in the matter, unfortunately. They can’t let a kid who just tried to kill himself run off into the forests of upstate New York.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Dad stands in the door frame, holding an umbrella. He doesn’t look at me, just heads over to Mom, shaking her awake with no grace.

“Visiting hours are over, Cynthia,” he murmurs, still avoiding any sight of me. “We have to head home. Zoe is waiting.”

Mom stirs, tilting her head towards him, but she doesn’t move. Her hand grips the blankets of my bed tightly, as if she let’s go, she’ll fall into some never-ending hole below her. Dad shakes her again, but more gently this time. She sits up, brushing her hair from her red, blotchy face.

“I can’t,” she whispers as if I can’t hear.

“I think we should give him some space.”

No eye contact.

“But the visitor policy says one family member can stay…”

“Cynthia, you won’t be able to do that when he’s in inpatient care.”

Mom gives up, always afraid to pick battles because she never wins. She looks at me and I make direct eye contact but say nothing. She lays a warm hand onto mine, squeezing gently. I fight every urge I have to pull away, but a few seconds last too long. I panic. I pull my hand away. I turn to stare at the wall.

“I love you, Connor,” she says quietly before leaving with my dad.

/\/\/\

No one asked why I did it, but I know once I’m back in society, that’s the only question anyone will ever ask. Truth is, I don’t know. Why did I do it? Why does anyone do anything?

A nurse checks on me every 30 minutes. It must be exhausting for her having to constantly be in and out of my room, always asking the same questions, checking the same tubes and chords, smiling the same pitiful way. It’s just a reminder of how I don’t want to be here. I’m sure she doesn’t want to be here. I can already imagine the conversations outside of the room.

“Did you go check on the suicidal freak?”

“Yeah, and he’s still suicidal.”

“Eh, he’ll try it again.”

Of course, that’s not realistic, but it’s how the brain tricks you into thinking. I don’t want to think this way, but it’s familiar, it’s comfortable. My brain self-sabotages, reading every situation wrong. My brain overreacts, turning me into a psycho freak. My brain then rationalizes the situation, making me feel guilty and gross for every negative thought and action when I should know better. But instead of fixing anything, the cycle just starts again.

But my brain is technically me. I can’t blame all of this on a chemical imbalance.

I remember when the words came out of the doctor’s mouth those years ago.

“Well, based off the psychiatric tests and the talks we’ve had together,” she said to me, rifling through her notes, “your symptoms relate very heavily with Borderline Personality Disorder, with some possible overlap into Bipolar I. It’s a rare combination, but you meet the criteria. Now, what we are going to do is set up a Care Plan.”

We set up a Care Plan, but it didn’t work, and I didn’t continue with help afterwards. I’ve got the diagnoses; I know the game. I can take care of myself now.

Is this all my fault?

No.

Yes?

Definitely.

But not exactly.

I don’t know.

“Five things,” I whisper to myself, trying for once. “Count five things for five senses.”

What do I see?

1\. A shiny balloon bouncing outside my window into the hall of the hospital.  
2\. Nurses on the night shift, tiredly shifting from room to room.  
3\. A bright red bracelet on my thin wrist.  
4\. Ugly wood paneling that gives off the age on this hospital.  
5\. Mom’s daily planner, forgotten on her seat.

What do I hear?

1\. Tick, tick, tick.  
2\. Beep, beep, beep.  
3\. Whirr.  
4\. Rustle.  
5\. Breath.

What do I smell?

1\. Um… nothing?  
2\. Death.  
3\. Antiseptic.  
4\. Dust.  
5\. Starched blankets.

What do I taste?

1\. I’ll just have to skip this one.

What do I feel?

1\. Rough, starched blankets.  
2\. The throbbing pinch of the IV in my hand.  
3\. Cold air on my nearly naked, pathetic body.  
4\. Heart monitors taped onto my chest.  
5\. A sharp, aching pain in the pit of my stomach.

I take a shuddering breath. I didn’t expect this to hurt so much. All I had to do was pass out. Hell, that’s all I have to do now: just fall asleep, relax. But every time I’m close, just inches away from unconsciousness, the nurse knocks at the door, someone is yelling in the hall, the air conditioner kicks on, the noise in my head is too much.

A knock at the door. The nurse walks in.

“Hello again,” she says for the hundredth time. “I’m just here to check your fluids, no more questions for the day, and no more visits.”

I could joke with her, saying something like, “Aw, I’ll sure miss you.” Be all charming and funny, make her laugh. But I don’t. That’s not me. I just stare ahead and let her do her job, trying to relax the best I can because tensing up only makes it harder for her. She finishes. She leaves. I’m alone with my thoughts once again.

I reflect on yesterday. First day of senior year and I got high first thing in the morning. A defense mechanism, admittedly, but by the time I had gotten to school, the effect had worn off. To start off, Zoe took the car without me, not wanting to wait up. So, I hopped on a bike much too small and went alone; a common practice for me. Then, I arrived at school, everything was fine (at least that’s what I told myself), then Jared Fucking Kleinman opened his big mouth.

“Hey, Connor!” he greeted, like we were best buds or something, then continued, “I’m liking the new hair length! Very school-shooter-chic!”

I stared at him, trying to bottle the rage and humiliation boiling inside me.

“C’mon, it was… just a joke,” he retorted, awkwardly. I could sense fear in his voice and some disgusting thing inside me almost got off to it.

“No, no,” I said, calmly as I could. “It was funny… Can’t you tell I’m laughing?”

Jared gawked at me with owl eyes.

“Am I not laughing hard enough?” my voice rose into a yell. “Ha! Ha! HA! HA!”

“God, you’re such a fucking freak!” Jared yelled back running down the hallway like a gazelle running from a lion. But he left behind another Gazelle, one with a broken limb, helpless against the predator.

Evan Hansen, a senior with a broken arm, standing small. He laughed to himself.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” I shouted at him. He cowered, stammering something quick and nervous, but I didn’t bother to listen. “Stop fucking laughing at me!”

“B-but I wasn’t—”

“You think I’m a freak? I’m not the freak!”

“I was just—”

“You’re the fucking freak!”

And in a blinding fit of rage, I shoved Evan to the ground. Everything was a blur right after as I stormed down the hall. I remember anger. And then I remember that anger is just a disguise for other emotions. So, what did I feel?

Pain.

Humiliation.

Loneliness.

Disappointment.

I had a ponytail holder wrapped around my wrist, and with several quick snaps, I brought myself down from the rage, only to feel like utter horseshit. I shouldn’t have pushed him. But he was laughing. But I didn’t know what he was laughing at. Whatever, it’s done know.

The day passed quickly, quicker than I expected. Sure, it was lonely, but when I wasn’t dying of boredom through syllabus information, I just read. I read just about anything. I read enough to make any English teacher explode with joy, but that didn’t stop me from fucking over assignments. Sure, I enjoyed reading Huck Finn several years ago, but I wasn’t going to let anyone else know that. So, the debate of Cuck Finn vs Fuck Finn happened, and Alana Beck was mortified in front of the entire class. Not my proudest moment, but I did well on the individual testing. English was something I always looked forward to, just because it was something I was good at, even when I was being a complete ass. Art was another thing that just came naturally. Something about creating just helped me feel a little less lonely.

So, the day went on, reading, listening, being bored, being alone. Then fate wanted to have some fun with me and I found myself in the same computer lab as Evan Hansen. The anxious wreck was aggressively typing away at his computer, doing the best he could with a broken arm. I just watch from afar, mindlessly trying to write a note, a suicide note. I never finished it, deleted before I got the chance to.

The printer next to be came to life and shot out a single sheet of white paper. The words “Dear Evan Hansen” were still wet with black ink. I gently picked it up, careful not to bend the paper and disturb the writing. I didn’t read it. Not yet at least.

“What happened to you arm?” I asked quietly, hugging myself tightly. I pointed to his cast and Evan went pale.

“I, uh, I fell out, out, a of tree,” he stuttered, not making eye contact with me.

“Wow,” I snorted. “That’s the saddest fucking thing I have ever heard.”

Evan just pulled at his shirt, twisting it every which way.

“Let me sign it,” I said. “It can kind of be an apology for… earlier.”

“You, you don’t have to.”

“Do you have a Sharpie?”

He fumbled in his pocket for a bit until a Sharpie emerged. It was a thick one, honestly not ideal for signing anything, but it would do. I grabbed his arm, a little to forcefully, and smiled shyly when he winced. I don’t know what possessed me to sign the cast the way I did, but it big letters, I wrote my name so that it covered the whole thing: CONNOR.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” he breathed.

“Now we can both pretend we have friends,” I said, letting my guard down for a split second. But before he could respond, I continued. “Is this letter yours? I found it in the printer, it says ‘Dear Evan Hansen’ on it…”

“Uh, well, yeah—”

“’If it weren’t for Zoe…’” I read aloud, confused at what Evan had written and why he had written it. Anger flooded my entire body. “Is this about my sister?”

“Not exactly, you see—”

“You wrote this so I would find it, read some creepy shit, freak out, and then you would tell the whole school I was crazy, right?”

“No, no, it wasn’t like that!”

But I ran out of the room before I could here his argument. Another dissociative episode of anger left me biking home with the letter balled up in my pocket. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with it just yet, but it pissed me off. In that moment, I knew I was going to go through with it; I was going to go through with my plan. I didn’t have my own note, but I had something. Maybe seeing how some weirdo obsesses over my sister it would bring some light to just a few of my problems.

/\/\/\

I don’t like to think any further than that. I remember what happened, I remember the steps I took to get where I am now. But I don’t want to remember that. I just want to sleep now. But sleep doesn’t come.

The clock reads 8:17 p.m., amateur hours for insomniacs. The hospital noises have gone down, I can focus now. My head is quieted, too, just a light murmur rather than a roaring storm of distress. But still I lay awake, staring at the Styrofoam ceiling wondering how much dust would rain down if I pushed one of the panels up. But besides the aimless thoughts of distraction and curiosity, one question bugs my mind.

What would be happening right now if I did die?


	2. Chapter 2

I’m not going to tell you about a weeklong inpatient visit. If you want to know what that’s like, just read “It’s Kind of a Funny Story.” But today is my first day back home and it’s just me, my mom, and daytime television echoing through a large, minimalist decorated house. She doesn’t say much, let’s me do my own thing, as long as I’m in her sights. She knits, her latest fad, I draw, but don’t let her see, Dr. Phil bullies children, their parents enable it.

I’m not really a graphite person, but it’s what I can get away with in a living room that’s mostly white. I prefer to paint, usually in a wide array of color and abstraction, something very far from the person I present myself as. Mom knows I’m an artist, always have, but the last few years, I’ve hidden or destroyed every piece I made. I avoided school art shows, and when I couldn’t, told no one about them and didn’t even show up to the reception myself. When bringing stuff home, I hid the canvases deep in my closet, or shoved them precariously under my bed. Anything to keep them from being found. Art wasn’t looked down upon in my family—both Zoe and I were brought up playing instruments—but the visual arts I didn’t like to share with anyone. It was all too personal.

So, I draw, or more doodle, in an old sketchbook with barely any entries. I draw Dr. Phil on the television with his uncomfortably bushy mustache. I draw my bare feet outstretched on the glass coffee table. I draw the Target manufactured art we have hanging on the walls. I draw my mother, knitting with furious intensity, not having a clue what she’s doing.  
And for once I want to show off my art.

And I do.

“Hey, uh, Mom,” I say quietly, the words feeling heavy and foreign in my mouth. In an instant, she’s ready to hop to action, ready to fulfill any need or wish I have. But I don’t say anything, just showing her the graphite drawing (doodle) in my sketchbook.

I don’t expect her to break down crying.

“I found every one of your paintings,” she cries, holding her knitted disaster up to her cheeks like a tissue. “I never knew you continued with art… I never knew a lot of things!”

A few more unintelligible words leave her lips as she excuses herself. She leaves. I am alone. I don’t realize I’m crying until I realize my drawing is smudged with several fallen tears. I put the sketchbook to the side, wipe my face, and pick up Mom’s knitting.

The yarn is an ugly shade of orange, a sign that Fall is coming and soon Zoe will be downing pumpkin spice lattes like it’s nobody’s business. It’s only mid-September, but white women lose their minds over Fall. I pick up the needles and the book, trying to follow her pattern, but after a few messed up loops, I give up.

Who would’ve thought that Connor Murphy, nicknamed a “School Shooter,” would be trying to learn to knit to comfort his mother?

Maybe I’ve finally lost it.

Mom returns. Her face is still red and blotchy. I feel like it’s been raw from tears for the past week, which is probably true. She falls onto the couch, throwing the knitting onto the floor, and takes me in her arms. She pets my head and squeezes me tightly, breathing heavily, but no longer crying.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” she mumbles into my hair, “but I love you and I will do anything to get you better.”

“I know, Mom,” I say shakily. “I know.”

“I don’t know if this is something I should bring up,” she pulls away, worry painting her face, “but this was found in your pockets and it’s been eating away at me…”

She pulls out a crumbled piece of paper, unfolding it gingerly. I recognize it. Evan’s letter.

“Did you write this?” she asks, doing her mightiest to not cry. “Is this your… note?”

I take it from her and finally read the whole think.

Dear Evan Hansen,

It turns out, this wasn't an amazing day after all. This isn't going to be an amazing week or an amazing year. Because... Why would it be? Oh, I know. Because there’s Zoe. And all my hope is pinned on Zoe. Who I don't even know and who doesn't know me. But maybe if I did. Maybe if I could just talk to her, then maybe... maybe nothing would be different at all. I wish that everything was different. I wish that I was a part of... Something. I wish there anything I said... mattered, to anyone. I mean, face it: would anybody even notice if I disappeared tomorrow?

Sincerely, your best and most dearest friend,

Me

“Would anybody even notice if I disappeared tomorrow?” I whispered to myself, not realizing that this is what the rest of the letter said. I hadn’t taken the time or effort to read all of it, too furious by seeing my sister’s name.

“We tried reaching out to this Evan kid,” Mom continues, “but the poor thing is torn apart. You two must’ve been good friends.”

“No, we weren’t…”

“I’m sorry, Connor I—”

“I didn’t write this note. He wrote this note.”

“I don’t understand…”

I explain to her the scene in computer lab, how I signed his cast, how I freaked out finding some random kid writing about Zoe. I then talk about the rest of that day, opening up just a little, letting her know how I was hurting. And apparently Evan was hurting, too.

“Oh,” she says, after the story is over. “I’m sorry for assuming it was yours… what do you know about this Evan kid, besides what you just told me?”

“Nothing, really. He doesn’t really… talk. Something’s wrong with him. He’s smart, does his work, but whenever he has to present or whatever, he just melts down.”

What the fuck, Connor? Something is wrong with you, too.

“Hmm,’ Mom hums, her eyes glazing over with deep thought. She doesn’t say anything more, just returns to her pumpkin puke colored knitting. I drop the subject, too. Who knows what she’s planning now?

/\/\/\

When my mother sparks an interest for something, she puts her entire being of it. For example, last year she was Buddhist and from the moment she announced it, it was like the spirit of Buddha had possessed her. That is, until she eventually got bored or tired and moved on. I knew she had something cooking in her mind once I explained the letter incident. But even with that foresight, I am not prepared to come face to face with Evan Hansen and his mother when I am called down for dinner.

Evan is wearing the same polo he was the first day, nervously pulling at the hem. You can see at the worn areas where the shirt has been stretched beyond capacity. His mother stands next to him, a smile on her face, but a tiredness in her eyes. She’s dressed a little young for her age, almost like a hippie teenager that never grew up. And I’m standing there in my pajamas, barefoot, with scarred arms exposed, vulnerable. Instead of saying, “hello,” I turn and make a beeline for the bathroom.

Usually, my mother would just yell for me, but with all the tiptoeing around me, she just knocks lightly on the door.

“I didn’t mean to surprise you like that,” she says. “I just thought maybe you and Evan could get to know each other. Maybe he can help you.”

“I don’t need his help,” I growl. “Why would you just ambush me like that?”

“Connor, it wasn’t an ambush, I was just trying—”

“Trying to embarrass me?”

“No, honey… Just… I’ll give you some space.”

“Should we go?” I hear an unfamiliar voice, probably Heidi, ask quietly.

“No, no,” Mom says frantically. “We’d love to get to know you two. I’m so sorry about this.”

“Don’t apologize,” Heidi says. “It’s totally fine… You have a lovely home by the way!”

The moms start their own conversation, their voices disappearing as they venture further into the house. I sit curled up on the edge of the bathtub, picking away at my chipping nail polish. My wrist is red from several quick snaps of the ponytail holder.

There’s a knock at the door.

“I’m not coming out, Larry!” I yell, refusing to call my dad by any affectionate term.

“It’s Evan,” a quiet voice says through the wood. “I thought you’d might want to, I don’t know, maybe talk.”

“Why would I want to talk to you?”

“I don’t know… we’re in the same art class?”

“No, we’re not… Are we?”

“Yeah, but obviously the year hasn’t actually started. It’s all just picking up kits and assigning drawers. The, uh, teacher set aside a drawer and, uh, kit for you.”

“Huh, okay. Um, what have you guys started?”

“Well, I’m in the 3D portion of the class, so I’m working with ceramics. But both 2D and 3D sections are working with themes to produce a show by the end of the year.”

“Do we pick our own theme?”

“I’m not sure yet, but a lot of people are coming up with some really interesting ideas.”

I open the bathroom door to see Evan standing awkwardly. His whole persona could be summed up in the word: awkward. Scared would be another good word. He was about four inches shorter than me. Not tiny by any means, but he appeared smaller.

“Um, let me show you around,” I say shyly, pushing past him. He follows just as shyly as we make our way through the house. It’s a big house, but there isn’t much to show. We stop at my room and I push the door open, but don’t walk in. “This is where I live.”

My room differs a lot from the rest of the house. First off, it isn’t as manicured and polished. It’s slightly cluttered with trinkets and random collectible lining most of my surfaces. My bookshelf was overflowing with disorganized novel, comic books, and notebooks. Usually, there would be clothes covering every surface, but with me not being home, Mom took the liberty of cleaning up after me. You could clearly see the stack of hidden canvases store under the bed, recently disturbed. In the open closet, you could see even more canvases, plus a stashed away guitar.

“Wow, it’s, uh, very grey,” Evan says, smiling anxiously at me.

I nod. “Yeah, it is.”

“You play guitar?”

“Yeah, both Zoe and I play, but she stuck with music more so than me. Plays more instruments, too.”

“Do you still play?”

“From time to time.”

There isn’t much to say about the rest of the house. Just a normal, upper-middle class house. The kind of house a family that doesn’t have problems should live in. We end our tour at the dining room table, where everyone is waiting for us. Everyone is dressed up. I’m still in pajamas.

Dinner goes fine, normal for the most part. No outbursts from me—a first—and no talk about the letter. I don’t hold up much conversation, mostly just speak whenever I’m spoken to. I don’t start anything.

It isn’t until after dinner that the note is brought up.

“It’s a thing for therapy,” Evan explains. “I have to write, uh, write, write a letter for each session and I try to, um, make them positive, so, that they help with, um, positive thinking and all that.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of stuff like that,” Mom chimes in, overly excited. “We’ve struggled with therapy sessions, but we’re hoping to find someone that’ll work.”

“Well, Dr. Sherman is very welcoming,” Heidi says. “I don’t know if he is taking new patients, but you could always check.”

“Thank you, Heidi. This is so good.”

Our moms keep talking, as most mothers do in like-minded company. Evan and I just sit stiffly next to each other on the couch, not speaking. He keeps pulling on the hem of his shirt. I just play with the ponytail holder on my wrist.

“Is that yours?” Evan asks, gesturing towards the sketchbook.

“Oh, yeah,” I answer.

“Mind if I look at it?”

“Uh, no, go ahead.”

Evan treats the sketchbook like Indiana Jones handling the golden totem in Raiders of Lost Arc, like it’s some lost treasure, and picking it up could result in disaster. He flips through the drawings from the day and before. There isn’t much there, but he studies every doodle like it’s a full painting.

“These are really, really nice,” he breathes.

I pull my knees to my chest, ready to curl into myself. I am not used to compliments, or just doing anything good in general. So, I just say, “Thanks.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Connor Murphy,

Today is your first day back to school. I don’t want to promise you it will be good, but don’t assume it will be bad. People will give you looks, but you are not a freak. You are not a freak. Just think about how you get to start art class today. Today may be rough, but hopefully this will help.

C.M.

“This just doesn’t feel like me, Mom,” I whine, trying to take the paper from her hand as she reads it out loud. “It’s fucking stupid.”

“Language,” Larry drones from behind his comically large newspaper. Who uses newspapers anymore?

“Fuck no!” I retort.

“Connor!” Mom snaps, but immediately furrows her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. Can we just try to do at least a week of letters to see if they help? Even just a bit?”

“Fine, Mom.”

“Am I driving you today?” Zoe asks, trying her best to not seem annoyed.

“No—”

“Yes, you are,” Mom interrupts me. “We need you to stay near, Connor. At least for a little bit. Okay?”

I don’t say anything, just nod angrily, push away from the table. I run to my room, grabbing my messenger bag and toss my sketchbook and pencil bag into it. Then I stop, just standing in the middle of my room gazing over every one of my belongings. Everything that I am shoved into one space, yet I still feel so disconnected from it all. I get onto my knees and rummaged under my bed, behind the canvases, wondering if Mom found it: a little box full of secrets.

Surprisingly, I find it untouched. I open it, finding a year’s worth of loose antidepressants I had hidden away. Prozac and Abilify rattled around among dismantled pencil sharpeners and several bloody tissues. A little box full of hurt.

One time, sophomore year I think, Mom found out I was off my meds, admittedly more out of forgetting them than protest, but she lost it. I had never seen her so angry. She found the half-full bottle in my nightstand drawers, finding out that the bottle was dated several months back and should have been empty long ago. She screamed. She cried. She even threw a few things around and I wondered why I was the one with the problems. Then I deduced that this is probably where I got it from.

I hear Zoe call my name and I snap the box shut, hiding it back behind the canvases.

“Coming!” I yell.

/\/\/\

Everyone is staring at me.

I hug the wall closely, my hand tracing along the lockers. Students part away from me, like Moses and the Red Sea. I keep my head low, watching my feet trace along the shitty school tile, but I feel every glare, every stare, every look. I am even more the school freak than I was before.

A girl steps in front of me, slamming her hand into the locker. A bright smile lights up her face. I know who she is, everyone does.

“Hi, Connor!” Alana Beck practically sings. “How are you? Welcome back! Everyone here missed you so much and we’re so glad you’re doing better. Is there anything I can help you with? I’m always here if you need me!”

“I’m glad to be back,” I lie, barely getting in a word with her. Alana is kind of an It-Girl at the school: super social, super smart, super sensitive. She means well, usually does well, but everyone knows to hold their tongue when she’s talking, otherwise they won’t get a word in.

“Do you need help carrying anything? I helped my grandmother with a lot of stuff over the summer! Before she died of course…”

“Uh, no, I’m good.”

“Are you sure? I’m always here to help, Connor. Anything you need. Seriously.”

“Oh, is that the bell? I better go.” Another lie, but I swiftly escape to my first class of the day: History. Hurray.

/\/\/\

I’ll spare you the details of the day, but I went through it as I normally would: headphones in, nose buried in a book. Ignored most everybody the best I could, but it was hard to ignore all the stares and whispers. I just felt like a spectacle. “Look! There he is! Dead man walking!”

And then there was Evan.

Evan is everywhere now. For a kid that’s practically mute in school, he’s ever present. I have him in several classes, we pass each other in the halls during every passing period, and even at lunch, he ate in the art room, just like me. I kept finding him glancing at me. Luckily, he wasn’t staring with the same pity as everyone else. He stared out of curiosity, like he was discovering something new for the first time. Something that wasn’t scary.

I’ve never had someone look at me without fear or pity.

And that’s where I am at. In art class, listening to the teacher for once, having a staring contest with Evan Hansen. Dear Evan Hansen… was today a good day?

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Mr. Swenson addresses the class. “As you all know, today is a workday for developing your senior show theme. Those are due by class tomorrow.”

With that little introduction, everyone gets to work. Everyone except me, understandably so.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get a week, just like everyone else,” Mr. Swenson reassures, taking a seat next to mine. He’s fresh out of college, and the only teacher that wears flannels like they’re high fashion. He’s in his second year of teaching, but students constantly tease him for his short stature and young attitude. “Just to catch you up to speed, since this class is a year-long class rather than a semester long one, you’ll come up with a theme for a cohesive, end-of-the-year exhibition. All your pieces have to loosely follow that theme in some way. I know that you’re specifically in 2D Studio rather than the 3D section of the course, but since both are taught by me at the same time, students can work in any medium they wish to. Here’s a sheet with some ideas and just come talk to me if you need any help.”

Unlike every other teacher today, he treats me like a normal person, like I was gone for a week on a family vacation rather than a psych ward. He smiles after he gives me the rundown of the class, patting me on the back and heading back to his desk.

“Need any help?” Evan asks. He startles me and I jump a good bit into the air. “Oh, no, I’m sorry!”

“Hey, uh, no need to apologize,” I laugh a little. “Just spooked me a little. But, uh…”

“I was only wondering, since you, you, weren’t, um, here? Y’know?”

“No, no, I know… but yeah… I’d like some help. What are you thinking of doing?”

“Well, so, I’m really interested in nature, like, trees specifically. And, and, since I’m a ceramics artist, I want to explore making my, um, own, uh, scenes, like little dioramas or biomes. There will be, um, a scientific element to it, almost like, uh, what you’d see in a museum, y’know? So, basically, wow that was too much talking, my theme is just nature… heh…”

“That wasn’t too much.”

“Wha-what did you say?”

“You didn’t talk too much,” I shrug. “You were just being helpful… but yeah, I think that’s a neat idea.”

“Oh, uh, do you have an idea for a theme yet?”

“No, but I have an extension, so I have time.”

“Okay, well, we have to have thumbnail sketches for piece ideas, even if it’s just a handful.”

“Hmm, well, thanks.”

“Yeah, any, uh, anytime.”

He smiles and scurries away. Sure, the conversation was choppy, but it felt nice to have someone to talk to. Maybe we’ll have more choppy conversations. Maybe I’ll get used to the feeling.

/\/\/\

Zoe still ignores me on the ride home as she always did before all of this. Nothing has really changed between me and her, and I don’t know if it will. Admittedly, there’s a part of me that wishes things were different, but both of us are guilty. She antagonizes, I react, and vice versa. I know she goes around to her friends saying that I’m abusive and all that shit, and maybe she’s right. I have a tendency to get angry and violent really fast. Our whole relationship just makes me feel like shit.

I never had a good relationship with her to begin with. Maybe it’s meant to stay that way.

We pull into the driveway.

“Get out, I have to get back to the school,” she says. I shoot a venomous look. “I have jazz band!”

“Whatever,” I snarl, grabbing my bag and slamming the door behind me. Technically, it’s my car, or it was. It was “revoked” from me a year ago after I threatened to drive off the road, and thus gifted to Zoe. So, I defaulted to riding my bike everywhere, which I much prefer to driving.

There’s something free about being about to ride a bike. It’s exhilarating and adrenaline boosting. Even casual rides are like that. You have to actually put in work and effort to get to your destination. The world passes around you fast, but not too fast. The smell of the world encompasses you. It’s much better than being stuck in a shitty car with sticky leather seats and an air freshener that’s way too fruity.

But I can’t have that now. I ruined that, too.

“Mom!” I yell. “I’m home!”

“In the kitchen, Connor!” Mom shouts back. “With a guest!”

Confused, I turn to look out the window. I totally didn’t register the unknown vehicle parked in front of our home. I run toward the stairs, but like a mind-reading ninja, my mother is there, blocking me.

“You’re coming to the kitchen," she says with a crazed smile on her face that would creep out even the most seasoned horror movie villains.

“I don’t want to!”

“You will.”

Groaning, I follow her to the kitchen, and just to my luck, Heidi and Evan Hansen are sitting in the bay window seats. Even looks terrified.

“We were just having a little chat,” Mom says merrily, “as mom’s do, and Heidi and I had a little idea for you boys!”

“Like a, a, project?” Evan asks.

“You could call it that!”

“We were thinking it’d be a good idea if you two tried hanging out, being friends,” Heidi says, but there is more apprehension in her voice that my mom. “But it’s totally up to you; we can’t force teenagers into relationships.”

“We think you two could be positive influences on each other.”

Evan and I are now back in a staring contest, his big brown eyes gazing into my squint blue ones. Two pairs of eyes gaze at the two of us with a burning curiosity. What will come next? Will they say yes? Will Connor throw a fucking spaz attack? But we just sit there, in total silence, staring. Evan starts to crack, assuming I’m sizing him up, a predator ready to feast upon his prey. But I’m not, I’m just thinking.

Would a friendship with Evan be worth it?

Would a friendship in general be worth it?

“We should probably go,” Heidi murmurs, revealing her own anxieties just as she did the other night. “I have to get to work soon anyway.”

“Sure, I’ll be his friend,” I answer impulsively.

“Oh, that’s just great!” Mom exclaims, hugging me aggressively.

“That’s good,” Heidi sighs.

Evan just sits there, pulling on his shirt, staring at me with big brown eyes.

Dear Evan Hansen, was today a good day?


	4. Chapter 4

Dear Connor Murphy,

Today is your first day being Evan Hansen’s “friend.” It feels like a chore, sure, but maybe something good can come out of it. You have several classes together. You’re both in art together. Today will try to be a good day (because I don’t feel confident telling you it will be a good day because yesterday wasn’t good, but at least it wasn’t bad).

C.M.

“Why do you make them so short?” Mom asks. I shrug and pour the rest of the milk in my cereal, drowning my Frosted Mini-Wheats. “I feel like they’re hollow sometimes.”

“I just don’t have much to say,” I answer with my mouth full. A lie: I have a lot to say, but not if she’s reading it. I have my own revised version in a personal notebook:

Dear Connor Murphy,

Today won’t be a good day. It’s your second day back to school and now you have to fake a friendship with some anxious weirdo. Granted, he can be nice, but you don’t like people. You don’t let them in. You don’t want to let them in. On top of that, even though you have a week, you have no idea what you’re going to do. It’s fucking stupid to decide a topic nearly a year before the project… Okay, it’s not stupid, but I hate that I have to lock into one thing already. Mom is being super doting, almost too much so. She cries all the time and every decision I make comes with some sort of caution on her end. It’s like I actually died to her. Zoe is just ignoring me for the most part, which is fine, but… I wish she would care. I wish Larry would care, too.

Maybe Evan will care.

C.M.

“I think I write just enough,” I grumble. “It’s not hollow.”

Lying. Lying. Lying.

“Oh, no, no,” Mom frantically backtracks. “I didn’t mean it like that… I just mean…”

“We aren’t seeing any progress, Connor,” Larry says, giving me a stern look.

“It’s been three days!” I shout, pushing up from the table too fast and sending my chair crashing to the ground. “And only three days home! I’m not going to magically get better after some time in the fucking nuthouse!”

“Larry!” Mom snaps. “That is not what I meant! Connor, I promise I don’t want to rush you, change takes time! We have a therapy appointment today!”

“We have to take the kid gloves off, Cynthia.”

“I’m doing the best I can!” Mom shouts.

“I’m trying, too!” I yell. “It’s not fucking easy!”

“That’s why I do things the hard way!” Larry rises to his feet, squaring up.

“Doing it the hard way is what got me here!”

Everyone silences. My face is hot with rage all the way to my ears.

“I’ll be in the fucking car,” I state. “Don’t make me wait, Zoe.”

I wait for a response, for her to fight back, but nothing happens. She just puts her glass of orange juice down, looks me square in the eyes, and says, “I’ll get there when I get there, Connor. But I won’t be long.”

I clear my bowl from the table and launch it into the sink. The ceramic breaks into several large chunks with smaller shrapnel spraying all around. Everyone in the room stares at me: Mom in sadness, Dad amused, Zoe in fear. I storm out to the car, alone in my anger and pain.

“Fuck!” I shout to myself, kicking the dashboard hard enough to leave a clear boot print. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuuck!”

I rip out my notebook and immediately start scratching out another shitty fucking note.

Dear Connor Murphy,

Today will be a fucking horrible day. You are useless. You are violent. You are stupid, so fucking stupid. You’ll lie to your therapist. You’ll just stay the same way you’ve always been. Nothing gets better.

A Fucking Loser

Tears burn in my eyes and to avoid any chance of Zoe seeing, I climb in the back. The car is small and doesn’t provide much privacy, but I’d rather be behind her than next to her if I’m going to lose it. So, that is what I do. I climb behind the driver’s seat, throw my hood up, and curl up and cry like a goddamn child. Fucking pathetic, I know.

Zoe sees me crying, clear as day, but she doesn’t say anything. The ride is mostly silent until we pull up closer to the school, then she opens her mouth and says quietly, “I’ll park in the back parking lot so that you won’t have to deal with the morning crowd.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, wiping my heavy eyes.

/\/\/\

Out of a seven-class schedule, I have four classes with Evan: English, History, Art, and Gym. And the first class of the day is history, which is honestly kind of bullshit to me. We teach all this stuff about wars as a preventative measure, yet we fall into the same cycle over and over and over again. Like, history is important, but how is it important to me. What will I do?

I’m the first person in the class pretty much every morning, giving me the chance to sulk to the back of the room by the posters of important documents. But today, my routine is interrupted by Evan Hansen sitting in my seat, reading the documents with great interest, like we haven’t been learning this since first grade.

“That’s my seat,” I say, blinking quickly, as if that would make the red in my eyes go away.

“Oh, uh, I’m sorry,” Evan answers, moving to the one right next to it.

“Yeah… um, you know we don’t have to actually, like, be friends, right?”

I regret the words as they leave my mouth.

“No, I know,” he answers, nodding a little too agreeably.

“Have you ever done this before?”

“Done what?”

“Have a friend?”

He doesn’t answer, but he looks away nervously. His hands go to the hem of his shirt, another polo, but not the blue striped one he wore the first day of school. He pulls aggressively, automatically at the fabric. My eyes eventually find his cast, my name scrawled haphazardly on his cast. No one else has signed it.

“So, what was it like?” I ask, reverting back to that one conversation in the computer lab.

“What was, uh, what like?” he asks, his eyes wide.

“Breaking your arm?”

“Funny,” he laughs. “I was climbing, as far as I could go, and um, the branch… it broke, and I fell, hit the ground. There was pain, then, um, my arm went numb and I just, uh, laid there? Yeah, I just laid there, telling myself, ‘Someone will come. Any minute now. Any minute now.’”

“And that’s funny?”

“Yeah! Because, um, no one came.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, you weren’t there.”

Students start to pile into the room, and I sink back into my desk, wishing that the walls and the posters would just swallow me. Evan sits even straighter than he was just seconds ago, and I’m worried his back will start bending the wrong way. There are still stares and whispers from the other students, some even pointing at me in the corner as they gossip with their friends. So, I decide the do something about it.

“Just take a fucking picture already,” I snap at them, leaning forward in my desk and gripping the edge until my knuckles turn white. The kids I snapped at immediately shut up, all looking confused and scared. “Just stop fucking staring at me!”

Several whispers arise from that confrontation, the word “freak” being tossed around most frequently. I just bite my lip and sink back into the chair, into the posters, into the wall. The teacher walks in. The class begins.

I zone out, doodling in my notebook when I should be paying attention. It’s mostly zentangles and abstract patterns, all black and white. I wish that I had colorful pens. I have never really been a pen person, but I get bored easily at school, then I get bored of black and white doodles, and then the rest of the day is just hell. I try to bum what art supplies I can from the school, and then I buy the rest with whatever money I make from odd jobs. I never mow lawns or shit like that, just sell weed and art, few little other jobs here and there; whatever I can do to get by.

“Connor Murphy?”

I come to, realizing I had been disassociating, or probably just zoning out. I get lost in my thoughts a lot and can't always tell the difference between disassociation and just plain daydreaming. I look at the rest of the class, all watchig me. The teacher, Mrs. Freeman, had called my name several times.

“Oh, here,” I say, barely audible.

“No, Mr. Murphy,” Mrs. Freeman says calmly, “I was asking you a question about the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.”

Everyone is staring.

“Why would you ask me?”

She doesn’t give me an answer. “Let me repeat the question—”

“No, why did you ask me? Like, not to play victim or some shit like that, but I haven’t been here for a week!”

“Please lower your voice, Connor, I’m—”

“No! Why would you pick on me? Of all fucking people! Why—”

But then there is a hand on my wrist. I look back and there’s Evan with big comforting eyes. He smiles lightly. I sneer at him and rip my arm away, realizing in the process that I’m on my feet, hands clenched in fists. I lower myself back into my seat.

“Don’t fucking call on me,” I say strictly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Murphy,” Mrs. Freeman says with annoyance.

The class continues. I go back to drawing. Evan watches me carefully.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper.

“Just trying to help,” he responds.

I can’t bring myself to draw anymore. Evan looks away 

/\/\/\

When art class finally comes, it’s a snooze-fest of PowerPoints. In the dark room, half the kids are falling asleep as monotonous awkward teens present their ideas. There is an insecurity with each presentation, no one being sold on their own ideas and themes. Mr. Swenson more commonly called “Swen,” overly-applauded each last-minute presentation with a big grin on his face. For the most part, however, the presentations run smoothly from one onto the other.

That is, until it’s Evan’s turn.

Right off the bat, he’s fumbling with the computer, struggling to open his file from his flash drive. He’s stuttering he whole time, incomprehensible. When his presentation finally displays on the screen, it’s well-done, much more so than the rest of the presentations, but he can’t speak. He stands there, pulling on his shirt—another polo, I swear it’s all he owns—with his eyes shut tight.

“Um,” he starts, “I, um, I…”

Then he falls into silence, standing there, completely still. He is a statue of fear.

Without a second thought, I find myself standing up, taking a place next to him.

“Evan’s project is about nature,” I start, sounding fucking stupid. “I mean, there is more to it, but he’s very fascinated by, like, the science behind it, so he wants to explore that in diorama.”

Evan nods repeatedly, eyes still closed. I wrap an arm around myself, hugging myself through my own anxiety. I start to click through the PowerPoint.

“There’s not much I can say,” I mumble. “I don’t know, it’s his project. But you can just read the slides.”

Evan is nodding again. I must be doing something right.

“Evan is really smart,” I say, “he’s just anxious, y’know? So that’s all.”

I close the PowerPoint, eject the flash drive, and take Evan by the shoulders, leading him to the empty seats in the back. Everyone is staring, but at least it’s not me this time. Sorry, Evan.

The rest of the presentations continue. Evan leaves the classroom. I don’t know where he goes. I don’t follow. I just sit in the shadows casted by the students watching the projections. Before I know it, the bell rings, the day is over. I meet Zoe at the back parking lot where all the stoners dwell. She drives me home. I clamber to my room, ignoring my mother’s questions. I fall onto bed. My phone buzzes.

I have an email from Evan Hansen.

Dear Connor Murphy,

I asked my mom to ask your mom for your email. Sorry, that’s creepy. But I just wanted to say thank you for today. It was an okay day.

Sincerely,

Me

I delete the email.


	5. Chapter 5

I can’t sleep as I toss and turn without reprieve. Minutes feel like hours and the air around me is molasses. I check my phone, the blue light blinding in the darkness, and see it’s only 12:14. I rise from my bed, open the window, and stare out in the muggy September.

My parents are upper-middle class assholes. We live on land they purchased, and then built the house. The rest of the neighborhood isn’t very developed, so we’re mostly surrounded by trees, most of them taller than our house. You can just barely see the stars through the foliage, shining without the hindrance of light pollution. Most of the trees are taller than the house and I think of Evan.

I think of Evan and I think of the email.

My phone’s blue light blinds me in the darkness as I enter my Gmail. I click on deleted emails, most of them from my therapist before recent events happened. Right at the top is Evan’s email. I move it back into my inbox and open a reply message.

“Evan,

Cool. It was hard watching you up there. Just thought you needed some help.

C.M.”

I send the email and lay back down, staring at my ceiling. My fan is still, casting long shadows. When I was younger, Mom and I painted it with glow in the dark paint. She did the classics, stars, moons, and planets. I did patterns and shapes, using as many glow in the dark colors as there were, which wasn’t many. The result was a Frankenstein collage of styles and subjects: a mother’s delicate skyscape and a child crude abstraction. I remember one hot night the fan was on, spinning as fast as it could go. The colors and shapes all melted together, and I, in a strange state of consciousness, started to dream.

The shapes descended from the fan. I watched, eleven-year-old me suddenly imagining the glowing shapes as spiders. Giant, glowing spiders descended from the fan. Then panic.

I jumped from my bed and ran down the hall, screaming at the top of my lungs. I came to the stairs, turning at the landing to make my way down, but lost my footing and tumbled. Down the stairs I went, screaming and crying, waking up everyone in the house. Once Mom got to me, I was at the bottom of the stairs, laughing hysterically. Mom was scared. Zoe was confused. Dad was pissed.

Mom comforted me as I laughed and told her the story of the giant glowing spiders. Zoe, still confused but not frightened at least, laughed with us. Larry was the only one laughing and once Mom had taken Zoe back to bed, he took me aside for a “chat.” I don’t remember much from the conversations, but I do have snippets sitting in the back of my head.

“It’s the middle of the fucking night, Connor,” he grumbled as he took me down to the garage. From there, I mostly zoned out, focusing on nothing but his insults. “Goddamn nuisance, half the time, I swear.”

He scrounged around in his toolbox until he found two screwdrivers and took me back to my room. I followed him quietly, carrying a step-stool, knowing what was about to happen.

“We’re taking these down,” he said. “I get kids having imagination, but this is absurd. Waking everyone up like a fucking lunatic.”

I helped him take the that fan panels down, feeling worse and worse with each removed screw. Mom and I had worked so hard on these.

“Why can’t you just be like other boys?”

I didn’t respond. After the panels were removed, Larry had me throw them in our outside garbage can. I kicked the garbage can immediately after, mumbling profanities I had picked up from him. Without a goodnight from him, I crawled up to Zoe’s room and slept on her floor, my room being too hot, my mind being too hot, my anger being too hot. I didn’t speak to him for the next two days.

Now, my fan is just a boring old fan. No designs. No paint. No giant glowing spiders. It’s not even on, not even trying to be interesting.

I can’t fucking believe I’m comparing myself to a fan right now.

My phone buzzes. Another email from Evan.

“Dear Connor Murphy,

I know it’s only Wednesday, but would you want to hang out this weekend? You don’t have to say yes.

Sincerely,

Me”

“What the fuck,” I sigh, typing back a response:

“Sure, dude. Let’s just talk about it a school, okay?”

He responds almost immediately.

“Dear Connor Murphy,

Okay. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Me”

I don’t reply, shoving my phone under my pillow. I don’t sleep the rest of the night.

/\/\/\

The morning is surreal. Breakfast goes smoothly with little conversation. Mom doesn’t even complain about me missing therapy. Just says, “I called him. We’ll go next week.” Zoe tries to talk to me on the way to school in a non-threatening way (I still feel threatened and on defense, unfortunately). And finally, Evan is waiting at my locker with an envelope in hand.

“What the hell?” I hiss. I am alert and on defense, yet I find no apparent threat. Everything is off and I am anxious.

“You just said we, um, would talk at school,” he says quietly. His voice is surprisingly stable, little shakiness appears.

“This whole morning has been a fucking nightmare!” I rant, ripping open my locker just so I can hide behind the door as I talk to Evan. “Everything is… normal! It’s all too good. I can’t fucking stand it.”

“Why is that so bad?”

“Because good things only happen before a shitstorm in my experience.”

I’ve never spoken this much to Evan. I haven’t spoken this much to anyone in years. Panic is rising in my chest. My face is getting hot. I feel my lips moving as I ramble on about every bad thing that could happen, but my ears don’t register anything I’m saying. In fact, they don’t pick up any sound at all.

“Connor!” Evan yells. That’s the only thing I hear as the lights start throbbing around me as I fall to the ground.

/\/\/\

The hospital isn’t nearly as lonely and uncomfortable the second time around. At least not for me. Meanwhile, Mom is in a panic and Larry is stressed as they talk over me with the doctors.

“Do we know how bad the brain damage is?” Mom says, near tears.

“No, but we will run some tests,” the doctor answers calmly. “But luckily the seizure was mild. It’s possible that being a victim of an overdose, he could be having ‘aftershocks,’ or lingering episodes of seizures.”

“But will he be alright?”

“He seems alright for now, but we want to keep him here overnight just to keep him monitored.”

The doctor leaves the room and Mom starts crying. She just had gotten her baby boy back, and now he’s being taken away again.

“I’ve got to head back to work,” Larry says, giving Mom the mandatory spousal peck. She stops him from leaving.

“Why can’t you just stay?” she questions, anger sparking up in her teary eyes. “Why can’t you for once stay with your son?”

“Cynthia, we’re not doing this,” he murmurs quietly in comparison Mom’s rising voice.

“No! We are doing this! Every time something happens with him, you take off! You ignore it!”

“That’s not entirely true.”

“Remember the first time he threatened suicide?”

“Cynthia, I don’t know, we’ve been here before–”

“You just said it was some ‘teenage fad’ and then I was the one that found him BLEEDING OUT IN THE BATHROOM!”

Mom is screaming right now, her face brighter and redder than her hair. People in the hallway are stopping to watch.

“WE”VE BEEN HERE SO MANY TIMES, LARRY! When will you acknowledge that your son has a problem and he needs help? Tough love doesn’t work!”

Dad is speechless, aghast even. He just breaks eye contact with her, murmurs something inaudible, and leaves. Mom breaks down once again. The fire in her eyes is put out. My brain is sluggish, struggling to keep up with the world around me, but I push myself up from the bed and clamber over to her, sitting on her lap like I’m a child.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her, pressing my forehead into her hair. “You’re doing your best, I promise. It’s my fault.”

She starts sobbing a little less. She pulls away, looking me in the eyes.

“No, no,” she sobs, “It’s not your fault. You just need some extra help, and that’s okay.”

She hugs me tightly for a moment, before pushing me off her lap, giggling softly. I sit on the bed cross-legged, smiling slightly. She hasn’t laughed in a long time. She hasn’t hear me laugh in a long time.

“Why did the duck cross the road?” I ask her. Her face lights up with the biggest grin I’ve seen in a long time.

“To prove that he wasn’t chicken,” we finish together, breaking into stupid, silly laughter. She takes my hand, smiling tightly.  
“You were such a happy kid,” she whispers clearly.

I can’t answer to that, I don’t know how. This woman has done so much for me, and yet I’ve practically thrown that away time and time again. I’m not the only one hurting.   
“How about I get something for us to eat?” she changes the subject. “Any place special?”

“Chick-fil-A?” I ask, a child like innocence behind the request. “12-piece nuggets with their sauce. Please.”

A nod, another big smile, and she’s off to retrieve God’s Chicken. I lay back down in the bed, playing with my wristband. I keep every hospital wristband I’ve ever worn. They’re sort of like trophies, achievements. Hurray! You survived another hospital stay! Now, please stop coming back! But somehow, I always end up here, one way or another. Just another wristband to be stored away in my desk drawer.

“Connor Murphy?” a nurse asks at the door. I nod curtly. “You have a guest here to see you.”

She steps out of the way, returning to her job, and in the door stands Evan.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” I question.

“Yeah, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he answers.

“So, you aren’t like, ‘Oh, no! My grades!’?”

“Just never something I, um, worried about.” He shrugs, then walks over to the seat Mom occupied earlier, but he just stood there, hovering.

“You can sit down, you know?”

He nods and sits, like a puppy that just learned a new command. He’s a nice kid, but I just can’t talk to him. At least, not without it being out of necessity, annoyance, or rage. But that’s my own fucking problem. I rarely connect to anyone, and when I do, I set it all on fire somehow.

“Um, so, how are you?”

“I’m fine,” I answer, not really knowing what to say. “Just kind of existing.”

He laughs, fiddling with a loose piece of plaster on his cast. I don’t know if the laugh was out of nervousness or the shared humor of human existence. He bites his lip then starts to rummage in his backpack, producing a deck of cards.

“Want to play, or something? I thought it would be something fun?”

“I don’t know how to play any card games,” I say blankly. He panics.

“Well, um, then maybe—”

“Let’s make some houses.”

“What?”

I don’t answer him, just grab the deck out of his hand and move to sit on the floor. I almost rip out my IVs in the process, forgetting that I’m connected to all sorts of wires and tubes. Evan helps, grabbing the IV stand and wheeling it to where we are sitting. Cards are thrown on the floor and we get to work.

“Do you mind if I curl some of the cards?” I ask. He shakes his head, so I carefully bend them to get them to stand just a little better. Whenever I was at a party for Larry and I had nothing to do, I would seek out the nearest deck of cards and try to make little paper mansions. I hadn’t done this in years.

My hands shake quite noticeably, all the time, actually. It never used to the be a serious problem but jumping around from medication to medication has its side effects. When I’m off meds, the tremors go away or at least aren’t as big of a problem. But now a new medication means new side effects and today one of those symptoms is knocking down card structures.

“I’m sorry,” I grumble after I knock down the little house for the third time.

“Don’t apologize,” Evan answers. “I had the, uh, hand thing for a while, too.”

“It fucking sucks. Like I’m some old man with Parkinson’s.”

Evan helps to rebuild the house and by the end of it, we have a strange, geometric modern building, like a cabin rich people would build. Evan runs a “wind test,” blowing lightly on the cards to see how they’ll hold up. Most of them do, a few don’t. It’s actually fun and I don’t realize how much time has passed until Mom returns with Chick-Fil-A.  
“Oh, Evan if I knew you were here, I would’ve gotten you something,” she says apologetically. Evan shrugs, unbothered. He continues to make card houses while I tear into my meal like a starving animal. Mom watches us like we’re two floor-bound toddlers just starting to explore. I’m still not comfortable with all the calmness, still reflecting on how off the morning had felt to me, but I can relax a bit, maybe even take some walls down in the process.

Maybe, but I won’t jump in too quickly. I can’t jump in too quickly.

I don’t know what to do anymore.

/\/\/\

Dear Connor Murphy,

You forgot to write a letter this morning, but then again you were on defense mode and everything felt off. I know you’re scared to let yourself relax. I know you’re scared that today was a genuinely good day, despite the seizure of course. Just know that it’s okay to have a good day once in a while. You don’t have to be punished.

C.M.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, but I hope y'all enjoy it nonetheless. Thank you for reading and soon I'll be updating this with some art! And I am always open to comments!

Thursday is tests upon tests. Heart monitors, brain monitors, supervisors, nurses—I barely get a second alone. I even tried hiding in the bathroom a couple times, but that just made everyone worry more about me being under eyeful watch. Watch out! I may just combust without someone looking over me.

“I look like Professor X,” I say as I play with the sticky strands of hair flying out of the EEG cap. Gels and goo pollute the locks. Mom smiles as she knits her ugly orange fall craft. I still don’t know what it is, but I’m at least glad she is sticking with it. I put on my best Patrick Stewart voice. “Cerebro, show me Magneto.”

“Last time I remember, you were more of a Spiderman fan,” Mom giggles.

“I am a man of culture, I branch out.”

A knock at the door interrupts the nerdy exchange. A nurse introduces himself and comes to fiddle with the monitors and the cap. He jots down notes on a clipboard, examines me every which way, then leaves without a word. I have no idea what is going on and neither does Mom. It’s all just a waiting game.

Mom knits.

I draw.

Time crawls.

The nurse returns.

“Good news!” he exclaims. “His brain waves are back to normal, no signs of epilepsy.” He continues with all the medical jargon I don’t understand, but it all sounds good. The seizure was just a lack of oxygen combined with the minor brain damage from the overdose blah blah blah. Keep an eye out for more but it should be unlikely blah blah blah. Try to keep stress and anxiety down for a while blah blah blah.

Wish it were as easy as it sounded.

He removes the EEG and every other tube and monitor. Unable to stand the substances in my hair anymore, I practically jump out of bed once everything is off and out of me to rush to the sink and wash my hair. I don’t care that the water is freezing when I dunk my head under the faucet, just as long as my hair will be somewhat clean. I can’t stand gross hair.

And finally, I get to leave.

On the ride home, I write.

Dear Connor Murphy,

Good news! You aren’t epileptic. So, count that as a victory for today. On top of that, you don’t have to go to school today or tomorrow. Just take those days for yourself. Don’t worry about school, don’t worry about family, don’t worry about life. I mean, you will worry about those things, but try not to let it get to you. Take these days for art.

And Evan actually wants to be around you, so maybe that is something to look up to.

C.M.

/\/\/\

The ride home is good, casual. Mom and I get along normally, not emotional weight to our conversation. I think everything is alright, but then we get home, and we get settled.

“Can you show me some of your art?” Mom asks. I tense up immediately, thinking about how I’m supposed to avoid anxiety. I know she’s just trying to connect, but I can’t process that.

“No!” I snap, way more aggressive than I intended. She’s a little taken aback, frustration filling her face, but she takes a deep breath.

“I have already seen the paintings,” she admits, but I already knew that. We both know that.

“Yeah, I know,” I grumble. “Going through my shit without asking, then you turn around and think, ‘oh, I should ask this time to make it okay!’”

“Connor, that’s not what’s happening. I’m only trying to connect with you.”

I bite my tongue, hard. Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. Don’t day anything.

‘I’m sorry I went through your paintings,” she says quietly with guilt. That breaks my heart. “I was just trying to look for an answer, an explanation.”

I bite my tongue harder, alarms going off in my head. Did she find the box with my meds?

“I shouldn’t have gone through your room, Connor. I was just… scared.”

Tears are welling up now, big pearls of water. I start biting my bottom lip instead, chewing at the skin on my lip. Blood fills my mouth. Meanwhile, my hands are working on their own, wringing each other painfully. I bend my fingers in ways they shouldn’t bend, but I can’t stop myself.

“I went back and looked again last night.” She’s crying now, sobbing, snotty. She reaches into her purse and pulls out the box. A little box of hurt. “I found this.”

My face his soaked in tears, snot, and spit. I’m aggressively, audibly sobbing, gasping for air. My hands squeeze my forearms. Mom knew I self-harmed, everyone in the family did. No one said anything. But she didn’t know I was off my meds.

“I want you to go get your newest prescriptions,” she says, more calmly. “I want to count them. I want to know you’re taking them.”

I do as she says, retrieving the orange and white pill bottles. I have been taking my meds, or at least trying to. She dumps them out neatly on the coffee table, counting them. A few pills are short here and there, but it’s proof I’ve been taking them. Not too much, not too little.

It’s funny in a sad kind of way that I didn’t overdose on my own meds.

“Okay,” she breathes, relief and worry all at once. “I’m monitoring your meds now.”

I hate it, but I understand it. It’s necessary.

“I should’ve been doing it earlier… I should’ve done so many things.”

She is a broken record playing a sad tune for the past nearly two weeks. A bunch of “I should of” statements, usually followed with me comforting her, telling her it’s not her fault. Her guilt is my guilt. But I don’t comfort her this time, and she doesn’t comfort me. She just cleans up the spilled pills and heads to the kitchen, prescriptions and box in hand, organizing them in an empty pillbox, one of those day by day containers. I follow after her, like a sullen shadow, not getting too close. She throws away the box, not giving it a second glance.

“We’re going to get through this,” she says. “I won’t tell your father.”

I nod, sulking out of the room, only to return moments later with sketchbook in hand. It’s open to a specific page when I hand it to her. Her tired face lights up when she sees it: a drawing of her, knitting in the hospital. She’s frustrated, determined to conquer knitting. You aren’t quite sure if she’s accomplishing her goal, but what matter is that she’s trying.

“You’re trying really hard,” I say, “and you’re doing really well.”

No smile this time, just a hug. The warmest, tightest hug I’ve ever had.

“You are good, Connor,” she tells me, still holding me in the hug. “You are so good, and nothing will convince me that you are not.”

/\/\/\

Another sleepless night leads to emails with Evan, but I am the one that emails first.

“Hey, you still down to hang out this weekend?”

It doesn’t take him long to respond.

“Yeah, Any particular day, time, place, etcetera?”

“Saturday, meet me at my place, noon.”

“See you then!”

My phone returns to its resting place under my pillow and I fall to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Saturday comes. I’m lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling as the clock on the wall ticks away to noon. Evan will be here soon. I am going out with a friend. I have plans to leave the house that aren’t to buy weed or art supplies. Today will be a good day.

Maybe.

I hope so.

15 minutes away from noon. I am the only one home today, a bold move on my mother’s part. At least she trusts me. Hell, she trusts me more than I trust myself.  
My hands shake violently. My eyes trace the plaster patterns on the ceiling. Anxiety and energy course through my veins and I feel like I am made of lightning. I want to run, far. I don’t know where or how long, but I just want to get out of here. I bolt up, grab my messenger bag, and make for the door. As I rip it open, the doorbell rings. Evan stands there.

“You’re early,” I smile widely. Mania is setting in. He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “Let’s get out of here. I’m driving.”

Not a good idea.

We climb in the car and take off down the empty streets.

/\/\/\

“You’re going a little fast,” Evan says nervously on route to A La Mode Ice Cream Parlor. I just shrug, keep driving. I’m only 15 over the limit, it’s no big deal. Everyone drives a little fast every now and then. We skid into the parking lot. Evan is all shaky as he exits the car, but I pay no mind and jog up to the parlor, holding the door open for him. My entire body is practically vibrating with uncontained energy.

We order our ice creams. I go overboard on size and toppings, knowing full well I won’t finish it. The wind outside is strong today, but we still choose to sit on the curb. My hair blows every which way, getting into my hair and my ice cream. I don’t care. I usually do, but not today. Evan just nibbles at his cone quietly, like a little rabbit.

“You ever been here before?” I ask, wiping my mouth on my sweatshirt. Evan shakes his head. “What do you think?”

“It’s pretty good,” he says, smiling a little. “I just got vanilla. You?”

“I don’t know, just some weird combo shit.”

Evan laughs. I smile. This isn’t so bad.

“Any idea where you want to go next?” I ask, launching the rest of my unfinished ice cream into the brush. A small party of adults give me a disapproving look, but being the classy individual I am, I just flip them off.

“No, not really,” Evan says. “I don’t know this part of town.”

‘Okay, hmm… well… Oh, wait! I have an idea!”

I push myself up from the ground, heading to the car. I don’t wait for Evan, just expect him to be right behind me. He’s not. His footsteps are quick behind me as he tries to keep up with my long strides. Neither of my parents are particularly tall, yet I somehow shot up to 6’3” and every day it’s a blessing and a curse. Evan is only around 5’7” in height.  
“So, uh, where are we going?” he asks, buckling in. His knuckles are white. He doesn’t like my driving.

“You’ll see,” I smirk, shifting into gear, no seatbelt. The destination isn’t far from A La Mode, so we’ll be there in about five minutes. Evan still seems worried, nervous. We haven’t spoken much in nearly an hour of being out and about, but before I can stop myself, I am spilling over. “I won’t tell you exactly what it is or where, but my family used to go all the time. We’d spend hours—whole days even—just together. You’re gonna love it so much—it’s right up your alley. And Zoe loved it, too. That’s back when we were—”

The conversation drops off and suddenly I’m sad. The world around me turns to static as I process those memories of Zoe and I being more than just siblings: friends. The scenes play in front of me, like I’m reliving them. Running through the trees with Zoe, playing hide and seek. I’d purposefully let her win, thinking that I was some noble big brother by doing so. I’d take her through the seasonal mazes, play all the games with her. I never really had any friends, but she had many. She used to always choose them over me, but at the orchard I was the first choice. Always.

“Connor!” Evan yells. A car’s horn rips me out of my daydream, and I swerve out of the opposite lane just moments before collision. Evan is crying and screaming, scared. My chest starts to clamp up and guilt pools within me. My grip on the wheel tightens as I stare straight ahead.

“You’ll love it there,” I murmur. Evan doesn’t hear me, just stares out the window, crying.

We arrive.

I learn something new.

“Where are we?” Evan asks, his tears dry, but face puffy.

“What the fuck?” I shout, observing the run-down grounds. I had always thought the reason my family had stopped going was because Zoe and I were too old, but it turns out the damn place was just shut down. “No, no, no! It wasn’t supposed to be like this!”

“What do you mean?”

“The orchard! It’s not supposed to be closed!”

I grab the fence, rattling it aggressively. I give it a few good kicks, too. It doesn’t do anything, but it feels nice to relieve the emotions. Through the fence, I observe the damage. The whole thing is overgrown with weeds, looking as if no human had ever been here before. The trees still stand, but they’ve lost their color, their life. Many of them stand dead despite it only being September.

“We could go somewhere else?” Evan suggests.

“NO! I was going to make today a good day—a great day even! And now it’s just ruined!”

“But it isn’t ruined…”

I examine the “No Trespassing” sign. It’s old, rusted, forgotten about, just like the rest of the orchard. I let go of it and start climbing up the fence, jumping to the other side. Evan practically panics.

“You’re right,” I say. “It isn’t ruined. C’mon.”

“I-I don’t think I should,” he stammers, fingers curling around the cold linked metal. His other hand, the casted one, toyed with his sweater. Not a sweatshirt, a knit sweater with a collared shirt underneath. Meanwhile, I’m wearing the ratty jean jacket I found in a military surplus store with layers of grey clothing lined underneath, all completed by combat boots with worn down toes. Evan looks ready to go to a fancy dinner. I look ready to eat out of the dumpster in the back.

“It’s fine, Evan,” I persuade. “I’ll be here to catch you.”

He struggles his way up the fence, the toes of his shoes barely holding on. With the cast, it’s even harder. He practically crawls, slowly, creeping, until he gets to the top. He’s shaking, violently. I know it’s not the wind shaking him. I know he isn’t shivering because he’s cold.

“Just jump!” I yell. He shakes his head, eyes shut tight. “It’s not that far!”

“I can’t!”

“I’m right here! Just let go!”

“Oh, God!” he cries, tears streaming down his face once again. He starts to climb down, just as slow as before. Then, he lets one-foot dangle, prepares his arms, and lets the other foot dangle.

“Just let go!”

And he does.

I don’t necessarily catch him, more just provide him someone to fall on. The wind is knocked from my lungs as we lay there sprawled across each other. Evan isn’t big by any means—short and compact—but definitely heavier than me. I push myself out from under him, struggling to catch my breath. Though it isn’t a good idea, I start laughing.

“See?” I point out. “You did it! You’re okay! Nothing like falling out of tree.”

Evan tense up at that, rubbing at his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. I pat his back.

“It’s okay,” I say, still panting. “Let’s go.”

We traverse through the tall grass, parting the weeds as we go. I lead the way, Evan behind me, now smiling. He points out every plant and tree, naming off facts for each one. Usually, it would piss me off, but I’m impressed, intrigued. He doesn’t stutter once. Confidence fills his face. This is his natural habitat, his true colors.

I chime in, eventually, pointing out the rotted barn and the forgotten vendor stalls, telling stories from back in the day. I don’t hold back this time, telling him all about how this was the one place Zoe would truly notice me, would truly want me. The same for Laurence, back when he was just Dad. The orchard brought peace. It brought our family together. I tell Evan everything.

I don’t realize I’m crying until we reach the end of the grounds and I collapse under a tree.

“Jesus, fuck,” I grumble, wiping my face. “I don’t… I don’t open up like that.”

“No, it’s okay,” Evan says, squatting down next to me. “Sometimes everything just… boils up and we, um, we have to let off steam.”

“Or just tip over the whole fucking pot. God…”

I take in a shuddering breath.

“Zoe used to call me Connie,” I say. I’ve never said this to anyone before. “I hated it at first. Connie is a girl’s name, but… I grew to love it, to expect it. She only said it when it was just us, no one else could be around. Not even our parents. Then the day came where she didn’t say it anymore.

“It was my freshman year. I had already ‘been gone’ quite a while. I just wasn’t the brother she grew up with, and I hadn’t been for some time. We were locked in my room; our parents had gone out that night. She was painting her nails, then sometime along the way, she suggested she would paint mine. I had never done that before and was struggling with my sexuality and image. I knew the boys at school would eat me alive.

“So, I lost it. I overreacted and threw her box of nail polish across the room. Bottles broke, color went everywhere, and one bottle ricocheted and hit her square in the eye. She didn’t yell. She didn’t cry. She just looked me, square in the eye and said, ‘Fuck you, Connor.’ And that was the end of it.”

Evan shifted, a little awkward, a little worried, but didn’t say anything. He wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer. I burrowed into his chest, most likely breaking many boundaries by how tense he was, but I didn’t hold back. I sobbed into his shirt, soaking it.

“I’ve never really had a friend besides her,” I sob quietly. “God, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Evan says. He pulls me tighter, rubbing my bike. I let out a shuddering sigh, turn to him, locking eyes. I straighten up a bit, scooting in closer.

“Thank you,” I say, getting a little too close. I know I am, but I can’t seem to control myself. I lean in, lips puckering.

Evan pushes me away.

“I-I’m not like that!” he exclaims. “Like, it’s not, like, um, a bad thing, but I just… Oh, shit, shit, shit. I’m sorry, we have to go… I have to go.”

He runs off toward where we came from. I just sit, feeling mortified, stupid, feeling like a predator. I never meant anything bad, this feeling just overcame me. I couldn’t help it.

God, I’m a fucking mess.

The drive home is silent, awkward. Evan doesn’t say anything. I don’t try to speak either, knowing I’ll just make it worse. I just tried to kiss a boy I barely knew without his consent. I’m a monster. When we reach my house, Evan gets out, hops on his bike, and rides away.

I just sit in the driveway with the car running. A bright red apple sits where Evan sat before, a piece of paper under it. I grab it and realize it’s one of my own letters that I had stashed away in the car, either unfinished or hiding it from my mother.

Dear Connor Murphy,

Today will be a good day.

Who are you fucking kidding?

Just give up.

C.M.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for self-harm for the beginning of this chapter, so proceed with caution.

The sheets are sticky with sweat and blood when I wake up. Bright red numbers reading “3:13” watch me lay in filth and misery. The corners of my eyes are tight and crusted over. Mechanically, I push myself up, picking up the discarded scissors from the side of the bed and tearing off the sheets. No one is awake, thank God.

The laundry room light hurts my eyes. I shove the sheets into the washer without care. I don’t feel anything. I just can’t let anyone see the blood. Peroxide and detergent mix, probably not a good idea. I start the washer, wipe the scissors off and drop them in a pencil cup, and make my way to the bathroom.

The blood is mostly dry on my arms, but everything stings. It hurts more sitting under the scalding water of the shower, the run-off tinged pink. I can’t even cry. I’m just so miserable, but I make myself move, make myself work. I wash myself, dry myself, patch my injuries, get dressed, grab new sheets. Every task feels heavy and impossible, but I make myself do it. I’m not a bitch.

Mom is standing in my bedroom.

“What did you use?” she asks.

“Scissors,” I whisper.

“Where are they?”

“Laundry room.”

“Come with me.”

I follow her to the living room, still gripping the sheets. She takes them from me, makes the couch a bed. I help out, grabbing pillows and blankets from the linen closet. She makes another little nest of a bed on the floor and tells me to take the couch. I don’t argue, just obey. She puts on a movie—Coco—and lays down right below me, one hand holding mine.

“I wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself,” she says, nearly drowned out by a song. “Will you tell me what happened?”

“No,” I say. If I told her what happened, I would reveal that I’m bisexual, fluid. I’m not ready to do that. “I don’t want to.”

“I got you an appointment tomorrow after school. I am taking you.”

“Okay.”

She goes silent, watching the movie, emoting on cue. I don’t pay attention, I can’t, but the colors catch my eye. I squint, watching the way they move and morph, thinking about my paintings. I’ve been drawing a lot lately, but not painting. I need to get back into it.

“Can you buy me some new paints?” I ask, surprising myself as well as my mom. I should add a “please,” but I don’t.

“Um, sure! We’ll see,’ she replies. I can hear the smile in her voice.

/\/\/\

Mom doesn’t take me to Hobby Lobby. Instead, we drive downtown to the Art Center Supply store. Everything there is the real deal and there are little to no discounts. I wasn’t comfortable with it. I felt like I was taking advantage of her and her money, but there was no use fighting it. I already tried.

I’ve never been inside Art Center Supply, knowing I didn’t have the money for nice, name brand supplies. So, when I walk in the doors, I’m blown away. It isn’t stunning to really look at, just a store in a strip mall, but every art tool imaginable exists here, transforming the walls around me. Canvases, sketchpads, markers, pencils, paint, printmaking supplies—I can’t believe it all. All stuff I dreamed of using but never had the opportunity to use.

Naturally, I end up in the acrylic section, awing over colors I didn’t know even existed. I drag my fingers lightly over the silver bottles, almost afraid they’ll explode with a simple touch, but that feeling goes away as soon as I start grabbing colors. I start with the basics: white and black. Then, I move on, grabbing magentas, purples, greens, blues, and oranges. I fill up a basket almost all the way to the top, knowing that Laurence will complain of how much Mom and I spent, but we have the money. After that, I rush to the canvases, eyeing one taller than me. I imagine everything I could fill the blank space with, and I am almost overcome with joy.

“Can I please get this canvas?” I ask like a grabby little child in the candy section of a grocery store. Mom looks apprehensive.

“We might want to wait on the big canvas,” she says realistically, trying to bring me down to Earth. I nod, disappointed, needy, but she’s right. I have canvases at home. But I will return. Just you wait.

I can’t stop talking on the way home, similar to how I had overshared with Evan before breaking down. I just explain every color and how I plan to use them, what they’ll represent. I tell her about the year-long art project and how I still have no idea what to do, but I know I’ll get there. I am violently optimistic, vehemently manic. Mom is happy to see me happy, but she’s been here before. She knows my moods and how quickly I swing. With Borderline Personality Disorder in the mix, my Bipolar Disorder doesn’t always follow the traditional patterns it should. I’ve always been an anomaly.

She just supports the highs the best she can, trying her best to keep me in control.

“Do you have a favorite color?” she asks, interrupting my raving. “You’ve always been drawn to red, but I never knew if it was your favorite.”

“Purple,” I answer. “Pretty much all shades, except for the really pastel ones.”

“I remember the indigo in Zoe’s hair was your idea… She was thinking of doing pink!”

“Yeah… that was when she still liked me.”

“She still does.”

“No, she doesn’t, but whatever. She doesn’t like me. I don’t like her.”

Mom falls silent. I continue talking like everything is normal, and to me it is. It’s normal that Zoe and I don’t get along, don’t like each other. We haven’t in awhile and I don’t see anything changing that. We can be friendly, but we aren’t friends. Mom should know that. She probably does, just chooses to ignore it. 

I hijack the kitchen once we arrive home, laying down sheets and setting up an old, warped easel I found at a yard sale. A stack of empty canvases sits next to me, waiting for their opportunity to become art. I don’t have a palette, so I just fill up a plastic plate with all my colors and immediately get to work on the background of the first piece.

My brush glides across the canvas, colors mixing in an almost cosmic display. Lights play with darks, colors clash vibrantly, yet everything comes together in weird harmony. The background is a cloudscape of Crayola. Luckily, acrylic dries quickly, so almost immediately, I begin on the figures, sketching with white paint to plot out placement and movement. I try to avoid human figures, often going for strange aliens or cartoon-like beings. For this piece, I go with a classic green alien in a spacesuit, zapping a toy gun at another creature being vaporized. My paintings rarely have meaning. I just paint what I find fun, interesting. It’s a form of distraction, a release from the mess in my head.

I don’t ever plan on doing a personal, meaningful painting. I’m afraid it would hurt too much.

Several hours pass and I finish the last black outline on the alien and his opponent. I am finished, I am accomplished. I am ready to conquer another painting.

But just as I grab the canvas, Laurence appears in the kitchen.

“I’ve never seen you paint before,” he says. “Well, at least not in a while. You were an artsy kid.”

“Artsy” sounds like an insult from his mouth. I try to keep myself from reacting. He’s trying his best. He’s trying to be good. He’s trying to connect with you.

“I usually just hide in my room,” I answer, trying to not sound strained. I can feel the blood rushing to my head, my heart speeding up. “The carpet is a mess.”

“It’s just a carpet,” he shrugs. I haven’t seen him so relaxed, so non-confrontational. “What are they about?”

“Nothing. Just stuff I think is cool.”

Without permission, he picks up the alien painting. His hands are made for sports, rough and large, clunky in movement. I can’t help but panic thinking about how he could ruin my piece with just a twitch. I try to rationalize, try to tell myself he wouldn’t do that, but then I remember the old ceiling fan.

“Be careful,” I murmur. “It’s still wet.”

“Speak up?”

“It’s wet!”

I don’t mean to yell. I don’t mean to let anger into my voice. But it happens, and Laurence’s mouth presses together in a thin straight line.

“Do not raise your voice at me,” he says sternly, putting the painting down. He opens his mouth to say something else, but shockingly, he shuts it. He leaves the room. For once, we don’t fight. I return to painting.

I bite my bottom lip, tears welling up in my eyes. I practically stab the canvas with my brush, making aggressive and damaging marks on the fragile textile. I try not to let my emotions affect my art, but I can’t. I can’t focus on painting anything. I eventually break through the canvas and shred it apart. I don’t even throw it away, just abandon my mess and run up to my room.

I tear through my closet, grabbing out all the useless, meaningless paintings, running to the garage. I use any and every tool I can to destroy the canvases, ripping through the fabric with a box cutter, plunging screwdrivers into it, breaking the wood with hammers. Hours, days, weeks of work are destroyed in just minutes. By the end of it, I shove everything in the back of Mom’s old van and take off to the nearest dump: a perfect gallery for my perfect art.

/\/\/\

Dinner is tense that night. We usually don’t eat together, everyone being off at different events and extra-curriculars, but Sundays were always family meal days. Mom cleaned up my art mess, setting up a mock studio in the garage for me to work later, but I don’t plan on painting anytime soon. Not after today’s outburst.

“So, how was everyone’s day?” Mom asks with a tight smile. No one answers. She continues talking. “Well, Connor and I went to Art Center Supply and got some paints. He has a class with a year long project! Isn’t that fun?”

Laurence nods. Zoe rolls her eyes.

“The senior art students do it every year, Mom,” she says. “It’s not surprising he’s doing it.”

“It’s an opportunity, Zoe.”

Awkward pause.

“What about you, Larry? You went on a bike ride!” Mom exclaims.

“Yeah, but my tire blew out,” he grumbles, food in his mouth. “Same old trail, same old scenery.”

“Well, I had a good day.”

“My day was alright,” I speak, causing everyone to look at me with wide, confused eyes. “I mean, up and down like always, kinda shit, but alright.”

“Shit, but alright,” Zoe laughs, genuinely. “That’s funny, I like that. Your alien painting was cool.”

“Beware the invaders!” I say in a goofy, cartoony voice. Zoe giggles and we start conversing back and forth like we’ve never spent a day on Earth. Mom watches, practically beaming. Laurence is bewildered by his children getting along. “Resistance is futile!”

“Exterminate!” Zoe says, before breaking into laughter. I laugh along with her, and Mom joins. Laurence still looks confused, but just continues to eat dinner. Mom does her best to imitate an alien but sounds more like a chipmunk and the laughter just grows.

Laughter turns into talking and soon we’re all talking about school and work. I talk about A La Mode and the orchard, leaving out certain details. Zoe tells me of jazz band, and we reminisce on when both her and I were in orchestra. She was a violinist; I was a cellist. Mom talks about her knitting club and the contraption she’s making. Even Larry talks about the office drama at work. We are a family.

After dinner, Zoe and I help clean up, with her doing the dishes and me putting away leftovers. Long ago, we would watch a movie together after dinner, but that doesn’t happen tonight. Once we’re all done, we just return back to our respective nooks and crannies of the house. Even then, tonight is still an accomplishment for the Murphy family, and I can help but feel at ease.

I decide to go to the garage and paint after all.

I paint another abstract psychedelic background, letting it dry. But this time, instead of painting over top of it, I grab a Sharpie and I write.

Dear Connor Murphy,

Today was a day of many ups and downs, goods and bads, but overall, it was good. You are good. You are a boy who’s just made some mistakes. You are a boy who just needs to work through some issues. You are a boy who will make it somewhere in life.

C.M.

It’s honestly kind of lame, but I turn the piece toward the wall so no one can see it. Strangely proud, yet shamefully insecure. I pull out my phone and email Evan.  
“Sorry about what happened at the orchard. I was acting on impulse, but I promise it’s not like that.”

I send the email, heart pounding, but feeling relieved. As per usual, Evan responds almost immediately.

“It’s fine, I was just confused. I didn’t know you liked boys.”

“I’m bi, so yeah.”

“Okay, cool. It’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You, too.”

The lack of Evan’s signature letter setup and his “Sincerely, Me” sign-off is slightly concerning. Worrying. But I brush it off. I’ll figure it out tomorrow.


	9. Chapter 9

Evan isn’t in history class. My corner is the loneliest it’s ever been.

For once, I actually take notes.

The day continues, no sign of Evan anywhere. Not in class. Not in the halls. Not at his locker. He must be sick. No, he’s avoiding me. He is faking sick. He switched all his classes. He dropped out. He is pressing charges against me. He—

“Hey, Connor,” Evan’s voice interrupts me. I choke on my cigarette, coughing heavily. It’s lunchtime. I’m hiding in the bathroom. I put my cigarette out in a urinal, leaving it there for the next person to deal with.

“Jesus, Evan,” I cough, waving away some excess smoke. “Where have you been?”

“Doctors appointment,” he answers, playing with some fraying fabric on his cast, “for my arm.”

“Oh,” I say, all my negative thoughts dissipating, or at least most of them. “How is it?”

“I should get it off before Christmas.”

“T-that’s good.”

God, I’m stuttering now. How do you talk to the boy you tried to kiss without asking? I don’t even know if I like him like that. I was just high on serotonin.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, turning my head away to avoid eye contact with him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, hey,” he says, touching my arm lightly. “It’s okay… I understand…”

“I don’t… like you… At least not like that,” I explain. “God, that’s rude. I just mean, I swing? Up and down, a lot. I was in a high and just… lost control.”

“Connor, I get it. I mean, uh, I don’t really get what it’s like, but you don’t have to apologize. I just panicked and overreacted.”

“No, you didn’t overreact.”

“It was just one little blip, Connor. That’s all.”

“A blip? Who the hell says that?”

“Me, I guess,” Evan chuckles. I chuckle with him, hands in my sweatshirt pocket.

“Hey, you want to get lunch?” I ask, still avoiding eye contact. “I like to eat in the art room.”

“Yeah, sure!”

The lunch rush has died down once we get to the lines, thankfully not having to wait long. I just opt for pizza and, being the stoner I am, ranch on the side. Evan goes for the entrée meal, but judging by how public schools are, it’s probably not even food. Luckily, the art room is empty too, aside from Swen sitting in his office, separated from us by some walls, a door, and a single window. If I had it my way, I would spend the whole day in this classroom.

I turn on some music—The Smashing Pumpkins—and sit with Evan. He nibbles politely at his food. I shotgun my pizza like I’ll die of starvation in any second.  
“What kind of music do you like?” I ask between ravenous bites.

“I don’t know if you’ll know any artists,” he says nervously, mixing his mashed potatoes with his vegetables. “I like a lot of composers—Gustav Holst, Sergei Rachimaninoff. But I listen to other stuff, too. I like The Lumineers, Mumford & Sons. Instrument heavy stuff, I guess.”

“Do you play anything?”

“No, I wish! You?”

“Guitar, piano. Been awhile though. Some ukulele, too, but that’s mostly Zoe.”

“I didn’t realize she played ukulele, too.”

“Yeah, she can learn any instrument she touches. It’s like a superpower or some shit.”

Evan blushes red, shoves his potato mixture into his mouth. It’s obvious he likes her. So many guys do. It’s annoying. But, even with all the attention, Zoe has only ever had two boyfriends and those didn’t last too long. She was heartbroken over both, but I was triumphant, relieved. They were just immature assholes that didn’t deserve her time.

I’m not sure how I feel about Evan liking my sister, to be completely honest. It’s a bit irksome, confusing, especially because we’re kind of friends. I don’t think Zoe would appreciate him. She has the capability, but I fear him being a pushover.

“Music was always pushed in my family,” I continue. “Art was not.”

“They kind of go hand in hand though, right?”

“Wish Laurence thought that. Art doesn’t exist for ‘men’ in his mind.”

“Laurence?”

“My dad.”

“Oh. My dad thinks the same, too. I don’t see him a lot—at all really—but he was always a very, um, Type A kind of person.”

“Where is he?”

“Colorado… with his, uh, new family… yeah…”

“Shit, sorry.”

“It’s fine… You weren’t the one that took off when I was seven.”

He laughs bitterly, throwing his Styrofoam tray away. He pulls at his shirt—a tee shirt for once.

“Have you figured out your theme?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Fuck no,” I shrug. “I just make art to make it. I have no idea how the hell I’ll pull this off.”

“Do you just draw?”

“No, I prefer painting.”

I grab out my phone, going to an album full of my art. I’m not on social media, but I still document my work, try to have something to carry around and show to people who may care. I hand him the phone, let him scroll through the images. Dread fills the pit of my stomach. I never show my work to others. How will he react? Will he think I’m weird? Childish? Seeking attention?

He stops on a piece, zooming in on the image. It’s a piece I recently destroyed. Blue and green fills the screen as he searches through organic figures. It’s very different from the comic book style art I usually do, having a more surrealistic feel to it. Plants, water, and clouds come to life in a tangle of bodies. When I first made it, Zoe thought it was something spiritual, like I was piggy backing off of Mom’s religious kicks, but I just wanted to play with color, nature, and figure. I hated the piece.

“I love this piece,” Evan says.

“I destroyed it,” I say bluntly, ripping my phone from his hand.

“What?”

I don’t answer, just jump down from the desk, throw my tray away, and storm from the room.

/\/\/\

Evan and I are reunited in art class two hours later. Everyone is starting on their projects, picking out their supplies and jumping right in. Some have already made a good amount of progress on their pieces, some doing multiple pieces, others working on one big piece that’ll take them both semesters. I still don’t have an idea.

“How’s it going, Connor?” Swenson asks, sitting backwards in the seat next to me, like a dad about to have a heart-to-heart with his son. “You ready for Wednesday?”

“I don’t know,” I grumble, doodling and scrawling in my sketchbook. “I don’t plan art; I just make it. How am I supposed to come up with a theme?”

“A lot of students found this difficult. I just need you to have even the faintest idea and that will work. Even if it’s about working with color or doing shape-based work, then you can explore from there.”

“The others didn’t have it that easy…”

He goes silent, furrowing his brows as he thinks.

“That’s a good point, but—”

“But you pity me, so I get to do less, right? You think I need extra help? That I can’t hold up?”

“No, Connor, that’s not it at all.”

“Then why are you over here acting all buddy-buddy?”

I’m yelling now. Everyone is quiet, paused in their actions. My grip is so tight, my pencil snaps in my hand. I’m fuming.

“Connor, I’m just trying to help you catch up—”

“Then let me pick a goddamn theme and I’ll be fine the rest of the year!”

Fuck. It wasn’t that big a deal. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I just behave like a normal goddamn person? I should be thankful for his help.

“Someone is off his meds,” a girl giggles behind me. I turn around, fist clenched, ready to swing, but Swenson interrupts.

“You,” he points at the girl, stern, assertive. “In my office now.”

She pales, stammering some apology, some excuse. Swenson snaps his fingers and heads to his office. She ultimately follows him, shaking like a leaf.  
“Get back to work!” Swenson orders, before shutting the door and closing the blinds.

Everyone glues themselves to their projects. No one makes a noise. I return to my sketchbook. Grey, graphite shapes and patterns meet me. It’s a sad and trippy thunderstorm. I flip the page and almost automatically, without thought, start to write:

Dear Connor Murphy,

All you do is cause problems. You make scenes, blow up small issues, and generally make life for everyone else uncomfortable and unbearable. There are no good days for you, only bad days. You aren’t one that was ever meant to win at anything. You even failed when you tried to stop trying. You can’t even be honest in these letters, just writing lie after lie for your mother to read. Meanwhile, you have tons more of bullshit letters with bad feelings just hiding in notebooks and sketchbooks, reminding you how miserable you are. Nothing works for you. Have fun at therapy, fucking loser.

C.M.

/\/\/\

“Sorry that we missed the last meeting,” Dr. Liz Brigham says calmly, leading me in her office. It’s decked out with Target bought aspirational quotes and pictures. Throw pillows crowd the couch. A giant peace sign seems to stare down at me, almost daring me to be unhappy. “But now we can get started on our treatment plan.”

She had a clipboard and a pen with a pom-pom on the end of it, ready to take notes.

“How has you last week been?”

“Shit,” I answer, sinking deep into the couch. Maybe it will swallow me whole and I’ll cease to exist.

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

“Okay, then let’s start with something simpler. How are you feeling today?”

I take a deep breath. I don’t want to answer this, I don’t want to be here, but I’m not about to waste an hour of my time.

“Like a freak,” I murmur, staring at the peace sign. It’s right above Liz’s head, like she’s the patron saint of therapy. 'I don’t fit in at school. Students and teachers treat me like I could break or explode."

“Are those their words?”

“No, but that’s how it feels.”

“Do you ever feel like you may break or explode?”

“Well… yeah…”

I sit up a little straighter now, my hands in my pockets, my hair falling into my face.

“Explain.”

“Well, like today in art,” I start explaining, almost frantic, like a mad-man, “Swenson, my teacher, is being all overly helpful and forgiving. He tells me that I don’t have to do as much as the other kids and that just feels… belittling? Like he doesn’t think I can handle myself. And, oh well, I am the kid that tried to kill himself, so almost every teacher looks at me and treats me with pity.

“And the students act all afraid. I know I can be… violent. I don’t want to be, but I get so angry or so, so… excited that I can’t control myself. I don’t want to hurt people, but what choice do I have? Hurt others or hurt myself?”

“That’s a small box you’ve put yourself into,” she says, writing down notes quickly. Pink fluff flies off the end of her pen, floating delicately in the air. 

“I don’t know how to think differently.”

“And that’s why you’re here,” she smiles. “I hope you don’t mind, but I do give homework. Little worksheets for you to read through and work through that will help you with your moods, thoughts, and actions. We’re going to start with something I call ‘neutral thoughts.’”

She hands me a packet of worksheets and starts talking me through the pages, explaining what neutral thoughts are and how I can utilize them. I half listen, taking in just enough so if I’m quizzed, I can prove I know what’s happening, but I start daydreaming, eyes once again on the peace sign. It’s a mosaic of blue and green glass pieces all stuck together. I think of the blue and green painting, how Evan loved it, and how it’s now sitting in a dump. I hated that painting.

The session ends with her telling me future sessions will only be about 40 minutes long, just so we get through the gritty stuff, talk it out, then go over the homework assignment. She reaches her hand out, but I don’t shake it, just waving lightly as I leave. Mom is still in the waiting room, talking to another lady and playing with a toddler. I wonder if she misses Zoe and I being that young. It was probably easier for her. Especially when it came to me.

Now, I’m just a disappointment.

Jesus, I thought therapy was supposed to help.

“Hey, Mom,” I interrupt her. “Let’s go.”

She says goodbye to her new friends, then follows me to the car. She’s ecstatic, talking about how this will be me turning over a new leaf, a new chapter of healing. We pick up a new prescription of meds on the way home and she reminds me that healing takes time and work at least a hundred times. Probably more.

“I know we’ll pull through this,” she says optimistically.

“I sure hope so,” I murmur, my cheek pressed against the window.

The world races past me. I wonder where I belong in it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to add art (by my friend, Faith, and by me), but I am struggling with AO3's image system. Hopefully, there will be art for this piece soon!

Dear Connor Murphy,

You have one more day to come up with a theme for art class. You have no idea what to do. You are scared to reach out, ask for help. You… Well, it’s hard. It’s hard to commit to stuff, to think past today and actually plan for a future. A few weeks ago, you weren’t thinking of any kind of future at all. You’re scared of the future and what it may hold because you’ve convinced yourself that nothing good will ever happen to you, but you’ll get there. Step one: just come up with a simple, loose theme. I guess you can say that for the first time you’re thinking past tomorrow.

C.M.

I close my notebook and turn to the canvas in front of me. The yellow paint is already dry, practically frozen in the icebox of a garage. My jacket is covered in spots and streaks of paint as canvases practically encircle me, all of them in the beginning stages.

“Alright, what will we do with you?” I mumble to the canvas, picking it up and observing it in the dim light. One more day to come up with a theme. I toss the cheap, small canvas aside. It clatters into another, causing stack pieces to all fall in a convenient chain reaction. The last one to fall is the canvas with my letter written onto it.

Dear Connor Murphy,

Today was a day of many ups and downs, goods and bads, but overall, it was good. You are good. You are a boy who’s just made some mistakes. You are a boy who just needs to work through some issues. You are a boy who will make it somewhere in life.

C.M.

I grab a box cutter and cut out the canvas, leaving just a frame with the remnants of the painting grasping to the wood. I slice the canvas to pieces, toss it in the garbage, and stare at the empty frame. What a waste. I return to painting, not thinking about what I’m creating.

The background is a light blue, so I choose my colors carefully. In darker blue, I paint hands breaking into the canvas. The audience can’t identify the owners of these hands and arms, making it rather ominous, threating. Each hand is posed differently, some making specific gestures, others just outstretched. Halfway through, I chuckle to myself, realizing that the painting just looks like a bunch of Facebook symbols: just a bunch of likes, shares, and pokes. I continue painting, expanding on the idea.

There’s a strange feeling of insecurity and validation.

There are two hands that I put extra focus into. They form a diagonal, as if reaching out to each other like “The Creation of Adam,” but of course it’s in no way that symbolic or interesting. One of the hands, the lower one, is balled up in a fist, angry, tired. In white, I add bracelets to the wrist and rings to the fingers, self-indulgently modelling it after my own fashion choice. The higher one is in a thumbs up, encouraging, enlightening, but still unsure. I paint a white cast on the arm.

I throw my supplies to the ground, stomping from the garage and wiping tears from my cheeks.

“Hey, sweetheart!” Mom greets me enthusiastically. I just push past her, grabbing the milk from the fridge, drinking it straight from the carton. The tears are streaming faster now. I try to hide it. I fail. “What’s wrong, Connor?”

I swallow, return the milk, wipe my tears once again.

“Everything!” I scream, flailing my arms. My veins feel like they are coursing with lightning. My brain is loud static. I break down, telling her about how I tried to kiss Evan and the manic episode, telling her about being pitied and mocked at school, telling her about how I feel I have no chance for a future. I even explain the theme homework, how it’s due tomorrow and I have nothing. I spit out all of my emotions onto her.

And she just listens with open ears and understanding in her eyes.

“Is there anything I can do to help with the homework?” she asks calmly, holding my hand. “Let’s start with the little stuff, the stuff we can control. What did you therapist talk to you about?”

“Neutral thoughts… she gave a worksheet, too.”

“Okay, what are neutral thoughts?”

“It’s just, like, a way to not think emotionally, but not too logically. Like a happy medium, I guess.”

“Okay, so can we apply that to the homework?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re thinking emotionally about it now, right? What’s an overly rational way of thinking?”

“The rational way is probably, y’know, using a simple, basic theme. Like, if I did flowers and just painted different types of flowers. I have no investment in it, but it’s easy, it’s simple, it gets the job done.”

“Okay, that works. So, now the neutral way of thinking?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm, let’s see…” She squeezes my hand, looks around like the answer is floating in the air. “How about this: you need to have the assignment done by tomorrow, but you still have time. You can look to your previous works for inspiration and adjust from there.”

“But I’ve tried that!”

“I know, I know. But maybe if you turned your current process into something into something that could be stretched out. Don’t focus on the final project, focus on how you’re making it.”

I take a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut. My cheeks are still wet, itchy now from the salt. My head still feels like it’s spinning, but my feet are on the ground. I know where I am, but I don’t know where I want to be. And that is okay.

“Okay, I’m going to go make my PowerPoint,” I sigh. “I can always talk to my teacher if things don’t work out.”

Mom beams, pulling me into a hug. I rest my head on hers, holding her tightly.

“Thank you,” I tell her, before breaking away to retreat to my room.

/\/\/\

“For my project,” I present to the class, the projector shining straight into my eyes, “I want to focus on process and color. When I make my paintings, I rely on whatever comes to my mind first. I almost never plan my paintings. So, I want to explore what it means to paint instinctually. Through that, I plan to record through video how my art is made and then display the paintings along with it. I have never done video art before, so I want to challenge myself.

“On top of that, I want to explore color and what it means to make cohesive works. I will be very limited in my color palette, pushing myself to experiment with form, composition, and lighting to avoid too much repetition in the works. I haven’t settled on a palette just yet, but I have examples of a few on the screen. So, yeah, that’s it.”  
Mild classroom applause as the lights go on and I take my seat. Swenson pats me on the back, approving of my theme. Evan gives me a thumbs up, smiling wide.  
“Alright, class!” Swenson booms over chatter. “Let’s get back to work! This show isn’t gonna pop up from the ground!”

Everyone returns to their seats and Evan makes his way up to me like a little mouse.

“I really, really like your, um, theme,” he says. “I’m glad you were able to figure something out.”

“Eh, it’s mostly bullshit,” I answer, “but thank you. I’m just glad to finally start painting. How is the diorama?”

“It’s okay, I guess.” Evan shrugs. I follow him to his desk. He slinks away to the ceramics room, only to return with little clay trees, not yet fired, but hardened. “I only have these three done.”

Immaculate detail is put into each tree. Evan handles them with great care as he explains everything to know about each species. He replicated trees he found in nature himself, researching how they lived and grew, what environments they thrived in. Little pine needles dot the winding branches. Leaves are perfectly placed. These trees were crafted with care.

“Jesus, these are good,” I breathe. “And all done with a cast, too. God damn!”

Evan smiles awkwardly, shrugging, murmuring something inaudible to himself. I turn to return to my seat, but I feel a hand on my wrist. It’s Evan, once again, with sweaty palms. A nervousness is in his eyes. “Do you want to, um, come over, uh, to my place today?”

“Sure,” I smile, pulling away slowly.

Dear Connor Murphy,

Today is a great day.

C.M.

/\/\/\

Evan’s house is much smaller than mine, not that I should be comparing the two, but it’s just something to notice. The walls are lined with photos of Evan as a kid mixed in with framed astronomy posters. House plants invade the entirety of the small space, each room having at least three plants. Evan’s house actually feels like a home.

“Are you into astronomy?” I ask, trying to make conversation. You’d think it be easier to talk to Evan after being friends for a bit, but every conversation is just as awkward.

“No, that’s my mom,” he says, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard. “Do you want tea, or hot chocolate?"

“Hot chocolate, with milk instead of water… please.”

“Yeah, my mom is obsessed with astronomy, astrology—anything with the prefix astro,” Evan laughs. He is much more comfortable in his own home. “I never know when she’s joking about the stars or being serious, ha ha.”

“That’s funny. My mom does that, but with, like, everything. As of now, it’s knitting.”

“Oh, has she knitted awhile?”

“Three weeks and it’s bad. I think she’s knitting for an eight-armed baby.”

We laugh. Laughter. Normal. Everything is normal.

“So, an octopus sweater, then?” Evan giggles.

“Yeah, I’m sure it gets cold in the ocean.”

The microwave beeps. Evan mixes my hot chocolate first, then makes himself tea. We make our way to the living room, still laughing about an octopus's sweater.

“So, do you want to watch a movie or, um, work on homework?” Evan asks as the laughter dies down. He’s still smiling, happy and relaxed.

“Why the fuck would I want to do homework?” I chuckle, sipping my hot chocolate. “What kind of movies do you have?”

“Well, we have this movie binder, so we could look through that…”

Evan pulls out a binder full of DVDs and we start flipping through them, examining all the titles. The selection of movies is huge, ranging from childhood kid’s movies (that Evan profusely apologized for) to recent releases. Among them were lots of documentaries, specifically nature ones. We continue skimming the titles, until finally I see my favorite movie: Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho.

“Oh, shit, dude,” I exclaim, stopping him from turning the page. “We have to watch this!”

“Oh, uh, are you sure?” Evan looks uneasy, scared even.

“Yeah, it’s a classic. Haven’t you seen it?”

“No, actually… it’s just one of those that we own because you have to own it… you know?”

“You’d love it! It’s a masterpiece.”

“I don’t really like scary movies.”

“C’mon Evan, it’s honestly not that scary.”

Evan twists the hem of his shirt, biting his lip as he stares into space. He slumps back into the couch, breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “We don’t have to watch it. We can watch something else.”

“No, um, you’re the guest,” Evan says, shooting back up from the couch. “I just need to stop being a baby.”

He grabs the disc from the binder and inserts it into the Xbox, going through the steps necessary to watch the movie. I feel bad, like I pressured him into it, but he’s the one that said he would be alright. He grabs the controller and returns to his seat. The movie starts and Evan immediately starts shaking.

“It’s a slow start,” I reassure him. “You won’t have to worry for a while.”

Evan nods aggressively. Hesitantly, afraid to overstep my boundaries, I gently take Evan’s arm, rubbing my thumb across it slowly. I move in a little close, but not too close. Do I like-like him? Am I a predator?

No, I am not, I am helping a friend out.

“Just punch my arm whenever your scared,” I laugh. Evan smiles, visibly more relaxed. The movie plays. We watch.

Evan jumps, a lot, frightened by the simplest of scares. But immediately after each scare, he boxes my arm lightly, laughing it off. I point out Hitchcock’s uses of lighting and camera angles, noting how ambitious they were for the time being. Evan takes in everything, nodding and listening with his whole being.

“I never really paid much attention to movies,” he says. “Mom and I used to watch them all the time, but it’s been so long.”

“Well, maybe we can be movie buddies,” I answer. “Movies are a form of art. It can be an extra-curricular.”

“Y-yeah, I think I’d like that.” I feel a smile stretch across my face. “I'll bring some DVDs to school tomorrow,” I say. “We can start from there.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry for disappearing, I've just had a lot going on in life. I will admit, I have been feeling insecure of my writing, feeling that I am not creating a piece cohesive or consistent, even with constantly reading and rereading it again. I know it will be alright in the end, but I intend this fic to be almost a character study of Connor Murphy that shows him as a morally grey person, and an outlet for my own mental health journey as I navigate it. I hope you enjoy the complicated take on Connor Murphy, even if it is confusing at times. Bipolar 1 and Borderline Personality Disorder are difficult disorders to understand, even when you have it. Thank you for your patience and sorry for getting a little personal there. More chapters to come!

The next morning, I drop a stack of DVDs onto Evan’s desk. The boy jumps in surprise, looking up at me. I know I probably look crazy, carrying around the DVDs with a crazed smile on my face, but Evan’s consistently anxious expression melts away into excitement. He starts to sift through the movies, being thorough enough to open the cases and check the inside pamphlets.

“I picked five,” I explain. “I didn’t know if I wanted to go with a variety of moves in different genres, so I went ahead and just grabbed some of my favorite movies. They aren’t super fancy ‘cinema,’ but I think you’ll enjoy them. And there’s no horror!”

Evan lays out the movies:

1\. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

2\. Juno

3\. Napoleon Dynamite

4\. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

5\. Scott Pilgrim vs. the World

“I know it’s an odd assortment,” I stammer, a wave of insecurity washing over me. It would be nice to just unashamedly enjoy my interests for once. “Are you free to watch one tonight?”

“I mean I have some, um, homework to do,” he says, stashing the movies in his backpack, “but sure. Was there one you wanted to start with?”

“Well, have you seen any of them already?”

“I vaguely remember Napoleon Dynamite, I watched it with Jared once, but no not really.”

“Then let’s start there.”

“Murphy, Hansen,” Mrs. Freeman interrupts. She’s standing at the front of the class, clipboard in hand as she takes attendance. She has to be the only teacher who still records attendance on paper. “Class is starting.”

“There’s six minutes left,” I reply, no control over my tongue. She gives me a stern look, marks her board, then continues to call names. I turn back to Evan, but he’s buried himself in his textbook, reviewing his homework from last night. I press my lips into a thin line, remembering the uncompleted review questions. I pull out what I have anyway. Might as well try to pay attention to class.

The lesson drones on after a quick lecture from Mrs. Freeman about productivity and the importance of completing work (aimed at me). As much as I hate to admit it, I just don’t really care about school. I enjoy subjects like art and English, but besides that, I really don’t have any motivation to keep up. It’s hard to tell if it’s just me being completely lazy or my brain sabotaging my everyday life. I glance back at Evan as he fervently takes notes. My own notebook is just full of abstract patterns that I don’t even remember drawing, but the pen is in my hand and the ink on the page is fresh.

I just manage to float my way through the system, just another invisible kid.

/\/\/\

Lunchtime is usually a moment a peace for me. Hiding in the art room with shitty cafeteria food, Evan now a companion, it’s a quick 30 minutes to just decompress. That is, it’s a place to decompress until Alana shows up.

She immediately locks eyes with me, and a big, bright smile spread across her face. She confidently strides over to me, a white binder in her hand. She pulls up a stool to sit across from me and slams the binder on the table. Now I know how Evan felt with the movies this morning. The front of the binder holds a piece of copy paper with a black and white image on it.

It’s my face.

The picture is old—from freshman year. I’m wearing a black beanie. My hair is short, but still shaggy and curly as it pokes out from the hat. My lips curl in sad, weak smirk. My eyes are tired, puffy, and it looks like I was crying before the picture was taken. I don’t take many photos of myself, or look at the ones that others take, but I just know I always look terrible. I remember this photo, though. This was taken at Zoe’s final middle school jazz band performance. I didn’t want to go, but Mom and Larry dragged me along. They always made me go to Zoe’s events, but rarely went to any thing I did, none of my art shows, none of my plays or musicals, not even the short run I was in speech and debate. So, I just stopped being involved.

“Where did you get this picture?” I grumble, my hand tightening around the plastic fork in my hand. Anger starts to pool inside me.

“Just off of your mom’s Facebook!” she says, opening the binder. “There aren’t a lot of pictures of you online.”

“I know. So, so, what is all of this?”

“I had a remarkable idea!” she turns the binder to me. “Mental health is a huge issue among adolescents, but rarely do people ever actually address it. Teachers, parents, and friends all dismiss the signs and symptoms of depression and anxiety. Teenagers never feel like they’re taken seriously. Now, after everything that happened with you, I was wondering: how can we reach out to these kids and show them that they are being heard? So, I came up with ‘The Connor Project.’ This would be an organization to spread awareness on mental health and wellness, and to provide them with a platform to speak and be heard.”

“I’m sorry, what? Why’s it called ‘The Connor Project.’”

“Because you’ll be the face of it! After everything you’ve gone through, your story could be so inspiring for those seeking help.”

“Is this a fucking joke?” I say lowly. My grip on the fork tightens, the plastic starts to bend. My whole body starts to shake with anger. I can barely control it.

“No, no, not at all,” Alana stutters, hands waving back and forth, eyes wide.

“So, you just want to use me then? Exploit me?”

“No, Connor, I didn’t mean it like that! I’m only trying to help—”

“Well, you could start by fucking off, Alana!”

“Connor!” Evan snaps. Alana blinks back tears. The fork in my hand snaps. “She doesn’t mean any harm… maybe you should, um, I don’t know, hear her out?”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Maybe it could help others, y’know?” Evan suggests, twiddling with his shirt. He and Alana exchange a look, Alana’s eyes darting between me and Evan. Evan looks at her and shrugs. Something is up.

“Were you in on this?” I ask him. Evan practically melts.

“Well, you see, Alana saw we were hanging out, um, together? You know? And she had this, um, idea and she told me about, and it was really interesting, and I just thought maybe it would be helpful. A lot of people… a lot of people go through what you do, Connor…”

“Oh, so a lot of people at this school get openly called a school shooter on a daily basis? A lot of people at this school are referred to as ‘monster’ and ‘freak’ by the entire student body?”

“Connor—”

“No! Kids here don’t go through what I go through! I don’t care if they’re depressed or anxious or whatever the fuck they are, they don’t get it.”

“I think you’re being unfair,” Alana cuts in. The tears are gone, and her mouth is pressed in a thin line. I could sit here and argue all day about how wrong this is, how uncomfortable this makes me feel. I could be rational and calm, too, try to reason with them on how my suicide attempt shouldn’t be used for some bullshit activism. I could do so many things, but I don’t.

“Eat shit and die,” I growl at both of them, pushing my lunch tray into Alana’s blouse, gravy and mash potatoes spilling off the tray. I snatch the binder out of spite and storm from the room. I find Zoe in the cafeteria with her friends. They immediately quiet down as I approach, passing nervous glances to each other. Zoe looks at me with visible annoyance.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I need the keys,” I say. “I’m going home.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Fucking watch me.”

“You don’t get a free pass from school just because you tried to kill yourself,” a girl snickers, looking at all the others. A few laugh along, most of them giggle awkwardly. Zoe looks mortified.

“Shut up, Andrea,” she snaps, but I’ve already grabbed Andrea’s ponytail and yanked her out of her seat. She’s screaming. The lunchroom is quiet. Everyone is staring at me.

“What the fuck! What’s wrong with you? Fucking freak!” Andrea yells. I glance over at the lunch monitor’s table, noticing the assistant principal looking in our direction.

“Just give me the fucking keys, Zoe,” I say, panic sitting heavily in my stomach. “I can’t be here anymore, Zoe. I have to go home.”

“Okay, just come with me,” she says, taking my arm and leading me down the hall before any authority gets involved.

She rushes me down the hallway and out one of the exits. The crisp hair hits my face and I can feel the tears on my cheeks. Next thing I know, we’re sitting in on the back bumper of Mom’s old minivan and I can barely breathe.

“What happened?” Zoe asks softly. It’s a side of her I don’t get to see often. She’s so kind and caring, but all I ever do is antagonize and torment her. I’m surprised she’s even helping me now.

“It’s so fucking stupid,” I grumble, flicking my ponytail holder on my wrist, the pale skin already starting to bruise. “I was fine this morning—excited even. I was going to watch a movie with Evan after school.”

“So, what changed?”

“We were at lunch, just minding our business, then Alana Beck comes it. She has this fucking binder.” I grab the binder and hand it over to her. “It’s called ‘The Connor Project.’ It’s like she’s trying to use me or some shit.”

Zoe flips through is, reading Alana’s mission statement and intent, going over all the planning and outlining she had done.

“Maybe I’m overreacting,” I murmur, “but I just… I just want to disappear. I don’t want people at this school to see me or know me.”

“I think you’re valid in your emotions about this, Connor,” she says, closing the binder, “but you have to understand that she means well. She’s not trying to hurt you, she just gets a little excited about things, about helping people out.”

She runs her hand over my red and welted wrist, grabbing the ponytail holder.

“Evan was in on it. He knew about it.”

“I don’t think Evan meant to deceive you in anyway, Connor.”

“I know, I know… I just can’t see it any other way… Why’s it like this, Zoe? Why is it still so bad?”

“Connor, it’s barely been a month. You aren’t going to get better overnight.”

“But what if I never get better? What if I’m never fixed, and I keep pulling hair and pushing people like some brat on a playground?”

“Connor, it isn’t about being fixed, I’m sure you know that. You just have to work to get yourself at a place where you can function, where you can actually live. It sucks to see that you spend your life surviving, not living. It’s going to be difficult. It will always be a challenge, but you have to try.”

“I don’t want to try.”

“Let’s just get you home, okay? I’ll drive you; we’ll talk to Mom.”

I climb into the back seat of the van, laying across the seats with my face pressed into the upholstery. Zoe drives carefully home, not saying much. I tell her more about Alana and about how I shoved a plate of mashed potatoes on her. Zoe laughs a bit. I ease up, get too comfortable, and then I let something slip, something I never intended to tell anyone.  
“I think I like Evan more than a friend,” I mumble. Zoe suddenly pulls off to the side, parking the car. “And I think he hates me.”

“Are you serious?” she asks.

“I tried to kiss him in the apple orchard,” I explain. “Every time I see him, my heart jumps a little. But I don’t know how to talk to him. But he doesn’t like me back. He’s straight and probable thinks I’m a creep, too.”

“It’s normal to develop crushes on people, Connie.”

“It’s not normal to fall in love with any and every person that gives me even the slightest bit of positive attention.”

She sighs, at a loss for words. She’s doing her best, but she can’t help, she can’t solve my problems. The car starts up again and we’re back on the route home, the radio playing quietly.

Dear Connor Murphy,

You suck.

C.M.


	12. Chapter 12

Mom is out running errands by the time we get home. Zoe considers going back to school but is weary on leaving me alone. Instead, she just sits herself in the living room, putting on Netflix and working on homework. She orders me not to leave her sight. I scoff and run up to my room, slamming the door behind me. I tear through the room, trying to find my stash of weed. I just need something to take the edge off.

It’s gone. Mom had to have taken it.

I flop onto my bed in defeat, my face pressed down in the pillow. If I could only just suffocate and then this would all be over.

My phone buzzes in my pocket several times, a rapid fire of texts messages. I groan, yank it from my jeans, and see all of them are from Evan. I start to unlock the phone, then it starts ringing. Mom’s face and caller ID fill the screen. In a knee-jerk reaction, I reject the call, instead focusing on Evan’s messages.

“Are you okay?”

“Alana is really sorry about everything.”

“I’m sorry, too. It made me uncomfortable.”

“Are you coming back?”

“Kids are saying you pulled a girl’s hair?”

“Connor?”

Love. Hatred. Love. Hatred. Love. Hatred. My emotions flip flop as I can’t decide how I feel about Evan. This is a telltale symptom of BPD: splitting. It’s a defense mechanism of black or white. You’re either good or you’re bad. Just think neutral thoughts, Connor. Come on.

I know I don’t hate Evan. That is a fact.

I know I don’t love Evan. That is a fact.

I am clinging on to him and attaching myself too quickly because he is giving me positive attention. That is a fact.

I throw my phone across the room and bury myself in blankets.

/\/\/\

By the time I wake up, the sun is already setting. Downstairs, dishes rattle against each other as dinner is being made. Muffled voices drift up the stairs and through my door. Larry asks Zoe to set the table, his voice always much softer and kinder with her. Zoe asks how many plates to set. Larry tells her to not bother setting a place for me. Mom argues, making Zoe set the table for everyone. I lay huddled in my blankets, wondering if I will decide to eat with everyone.

There’s a knock at my door. I stay silent. Mom lets herself in anyway.

“Dinner’s ready, sweetheart,” she says softly while I glare at her from my bed. “I made panko chicken. I know you’ve always liked that.”

Dramatically, I roll off the bed, thumping onto the floor. Mom waits patiently as I untangle myself. She takes my hand, like I’m suddenly a toddler again and she’s leading me out of Barnes and Noble after a good day. But today was not a good day.

“Look who’s up!” she announces once we enter the dining room. Lazy, disinterested glances pass over me. I want to slither back up the stairs into hiding.  
“How was school?” Larry asks before I’m even seated.

“Oh, it was fine,” I say sarcastically. “Just like any other day for a kid like me that is oh so normal and healthy.”

“You watch your tone, young man.”

“You watch your tone, young man,” I mimic, feeling simultaneously proud and shitty for my actions.

“Connor Bailey Murphy, you are really pushing your luck.”

My face drops, eyes flicking down towards my plate. He already knows about the hair pulling incident and the mashed potatoes. He probably even knows about my feelings for Evan, too. But, he sighs, relaxes back into his chair, defeated.

“What are we going to do you with you?” he asks, which is way worse than just being yelled at. “Is it not enough? Are the meds and the therapy just not working?”

“I’m not going to get better overnight,” I murmur, quoting Zoe from earlier.

“It’s been nearly a month, Connor! You’ve hurt yourself, had outbursts at school, neglected your homework. I thought things were going to change.”

“I’m trying my best, okay? It’s not as easy as it looks!”

“I can tell that you’re trying, but I assure you it is not your best.”

“Well, how the fuck do you know that?”

“Please, not at the dinner table,” Mom cuts in, a tired smile on her face.

Larry actually listens, returning to his food. But I’m not done.

“You have no fucking idea what it’s like.” I practically shout, squeezing my eyes shut. “I have not one, but two mental disorders. And, yeah, okay, maybe I’m not doing my best, but it sucks! Everything sucks! I am miserable!”

Silence. Wide eyes and silence. Then, forks get picked up. Food starts to get scraped off of plates. Everything returns to normal, as if nothing happened.

“What do you think of switching to therapy twice a week?” Mom asks between bites.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Let’s do that.

/\/\/\

Dear Connor Murphy,

It’s getting bad again.

You can feel yourself spiraling. You aren’t sure if you’re so overloaded with emotion that you’ll explode, or so devoid of emotion that you’ll implode. You had a good week or so. A few blips, but you did your homework, made art, made a friend. But it’s over, and it feels like it will never come back.

And then there’s Evan. No matter where your feelings reside, or if they’re even real, you are bound to ruin it. Every time you’re with him, even when it’s good, there is that little voice in the back of your head, telling you that you will ruin it. It calls you a creep. It tells you that you are undeserving of any and all types of love. The only red flags are you.

Just accept that nobody likes you.

C.M.

The waiting room is freezing. I shiver even with a flannel and jacket on. Mom sits next to me, lazily flipping through a magazine. A radio plays quietly in the corner.

“Sweets dreams are made of this…”

The door to the offices finally open and Liz steps out, a smile on her face.

“Hello again!” she says, unphased and unbothered by the fact that I’m back so soon with no improvements. I follow her back to her office, giving her brief snippets of my week so far. She smiles and nods, actively listening. Once in her office, I sink into her couch and stare at the wall behind her. “So, have you done your worksheets at all? I know it’s only been a day, but I just wanted to check in.”

“No,” I mumble. “I haven’t had to chance to really focus on anything we talked about.”

“That’s okay,” she says patiently. “Before we review any techniques, let’s talk about what’s going on first.”

“I just thought that everything would somehow fix itself after the suicide attempt,” I finally admit out loud, breaking out of my denial. “I thought people would understand… I thought that maybe I would somehow turn around and be all ‘life is fantastic and I’m okay!’”

“But you understand that isn’t a rational mindset to have?”

“I know… but I just expected things to be different.”

“You got your hopes up.”

“Yeah…”

My hands fidget, flicking the ponytail holder on my wrist. Red welts appear immediately. Bruising is already setting in.

“Is there anything else that has been bothering you?”

“Yeah…”

She nods, signaling me to start speaking. I tell her everything: my moods, my insecurities, Evan, my outbursts, my lack of motivation, Evan, my family, my health issues, and, once again, Evan. I spend more time on Evan than I need to.

“Just to clarify, you initially did not want to start a friendship with Evan, correct?” she asks, examining her notes.

“Correct.”

“But now that you have a relationship, you’re scared of becoming too attached?”

“Correct.”

“Which you already have, hence the conflicting romantic attraction?”

“Yes…”

“So,” she says, shutting her notebook, “I think that on top of the basic coping skills, we should double up and work on relationship skills as well. It will be a lot to take in, but we can set up a schedule for you to follow. Now, the interpersonal relationship skills will help you balance out friendships, romantic relationships, and familial relationships. We are going to work on communication specifically. And, Connor?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t need to feel ashamed of your attraction to Evan,” she reassures, leaning forward and placing her hand on mine. “It’s important to be realistic, of course, but your emotions are valid. You aren’t a bad person.”

“It’s just hard,” I mumble, sinking further into the couch. “Like, it’s not even a big deal, me being bisexual. Larry is still weird about it, but he just ignores it now. I guess I just have a lot of internalized self-hatred, like I just don’t deserve good things… I mean, it’s obvious but…”

“But we’re here to work on it, together.”

“Yeah, we are. We will.”

Liz spends the rest of our time going over the game plan. She doesn’t give me any more packets or worksheets but encourages me to work on the one I already have. She grills me, too, makes sure I remember and repeat back to her what I plan to change and how I plan the change it. The therapy session ends. I meet Mom in the meeting room. She drives me to school.

Dear Connor Murphy,

From now on, you’re only writing positive letters. Or even “neutral” ones. Stop the bad habit of angry, hateful letters. That’s one thing you can change right away.  
Today is a new day. Go hang out with Evan, work on school. It will be alright. It just takes time.

C.M.

/\/\/\

Once lunch rolls around, the first thing I do is track down Alana. Honestly, not a hard thing to do. I find her, sitting at her lunch table surrounded by the speech and debate kids. It’s the same crowd as it was freshman year, and despite a whole year on the team, I barely know any of them. I’m sure they feel the same about me.

“Hey, Alana, can I talk to you in private?” I ask nervously. The table quiets down. Alana adjusts her posture, straightening up and putting on a serious face.

“What about?” she asks, a level of importance in her tone.

“Can it please just be in private?”

“Fine.”

She follows me over to the water fountain by the gym. She stands indignantly, arms crossed. Her lips are pressed in a thin line. There’s a glare on her glasses that makes it hard for me to make eye contact.

“I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I overreacted yesterday, and I felt like my situation was being taken advantage off. I shouldn’t have acted how I did.”

She looks me up and down. Silence hangs between us. Finally, she lets out a breath and relaxes her posture.

“That blouse was $40,” she says, “but you’re right: I jumped the gun on ‘The Connor Project.’ I should have talked to you first.”

“It’s alright, just… don’t do it again, please.”

“I’ll shake on it.”

We shake hands, firmly, briefly. A bright smile sits upon her face, her lip gloss glittering in the light. When we break away, she starts to talk, but I hurry towards the art room, hoping to find Evan, hoping to fix things with him. Alana calls out something, but I ignore it. I just want Evan to know I’m sorry, too.

He’s not there.


End file.
